Larks above the Mist (part 3)

Epona, mother of the herd,

Mare and newborn foal begird;

Sanctify our droving way.

These stones have stood far longer than recall

And tribal myths don't spin their origin

But thousands must have toiled to drag these blocks

From the far west down to this sacred place

Cutting the banks, raising the palisades

To honour gods we cannot even name.

I stand mute at the outer edge

While priests before me murmur to the gods

In words I'm barred from hearing till the day

They speak them over my now lifeless corps

Preparing my soft body for the birds

My bones for burial and my soul for grace.

All ceremonies done, I can set out

Through mists on every side make all seem strange

And paths, familiar to me, melt away

Into a bland, damp greyness where the sound

Of frightened birds, aroused by my soft steps,

Are the sole traces of a living world.

Brian Hick October 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 2.10.24