Larks above the Mist
Epona, Mother of the
grain
Apple maker, source of
rain;
Sanctify our homes
today.
Epona, Mother of the
herd,
Mare and newborn foal
begird;
Sanctify our droving
way.
Epona, Guardian of the
dead,
Succour those whom you
have led;
Sanctify our lives
today.
Epona, Mother of the
mists
Living Spirit none
resists
Sanctify our upland
ways.
Epona, life of every
stream
Pike & perch,
trout and bream,
Sanctify our watery
ways.
Epona, Goddess of the
sky
Lifting heavenwards
all that fly
Sanctify the light
today.
Epona, Goddess of the
night
Moon and starry points
of light
Sanctify the dark
today.
Past the Equinox, Epona’s form
Glorifies the southern sky each night;
Pearls upon her belt, bright shoulder clasps,
Draw up our eyes, our praises and our thanks
As she leads the stallion of the sun
To spark the night with silver from his hooves.
Two days before we lit the Solstice fire
My father died and our mid-summer joy
Was quieter for the loss, even though we’d known
His life would not last out another year.
As his eldest, I will take his axe
Along the ridge, down to the Isis pools,
Where I will break and drown it, giving thanks
To the goddess of our hearth and herds.
But summer grants scarce time for journeying
When harvest and dropped foals demand our all,
The barley cut, the apples picked and juiced
For winter bread and Samhain’s winter wine.
Now that the cattle have been culled and those
Remaining wintered inside banked coralls
Or barned beneath our huts to that their warmth
Carries us across long winter nights
Where, even if the grain runs out and meat
Is scarce, we will survive till Solstice comes.
A steerhorn calls beyond the palisade
Summoning the stallion of the sun
To flood with autumn warmth the valley floor
Where night-guards stretch, pick up their shields and
spears,
And sidle through the softly opening gates
Towards their huts, cold meat and morning mead.
I pray, while she hangs in the southern sky,
For succour on my solitary way
‘Gentle Epona, secure my pilgrim steps
Past ancient tombs –where silent bones await
The coming dead – far east along the Ridge,
Down to the sacred pools on Isis’ bank.’
Dawn, but rolling mists block out the sun
As I approach the ancient
Sanctuary.
The circling timbers, seen across the downs,
Stand like the wraiths of ancestors, alert
Yet passive to my presence and my prayer.
I leave a coin in token of my pledge.
There’s little time upon this eastward path
To pay respects to unknown ancestors
Who lie beneath thesilent burial mound
South of the track, silhouetted on
The low ridge running westward from the vale
Sacred long before bronze makers came.
The morning trumpets sound from Silbery
Rippling down to me on Kennet side
Calling to the flocks and sleeping cattle
Who wait the cull and feast of Samhain Eve.
But I must be in Avebury to join
The morning offerings of bread and salt and wine.
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
Though 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.
Mid-morning, but the mists have not dispersed
Culling the path to a stone’s throw ahead.
Within the grey, a darker shape appears
Forming itself into a monstrous head
Vast and threatening as I approach
But smudged of detail or identity.
Only when I’m close enough to smell
The moss and hear the sodden branches drip
Do I begin to see the blackened trunks
Of the beech copse, sacred to Sol Epona.
Tiptoeing in, the golden canopy
Drops its quiet blessing on my head.
My mind is drifting, almost to prophecy,
As I climb the hilltop, where we herd
The horses for the winter, sensing that,
Two thousand years from now the Iron Folk
Will raise a fortress, Beranburgh by name,
To expel the herders from our native land.
On open downland, along Smeathe’s Ridge,
The feral horse herds are left free to roam
Before the Beltane cull and the skill
Of metal-priests who cast the bronze into
The bits and bridles, broaches and spear-heads
Can tame the noblest stallions and mares.
I move on through wooded paths, across
The River Og, and into copses where
Plate mushrooms drip their primordial slime
Onto the rotting leaves and sodden moss
Clogging my feet, chilling bone and mind.
A wind cuts from the east as I emerge
Onto the upland moor, where grazing herds
Are silhouetted dark against the edge,
Moving silent as they crop and watch
Each other, until one breaks free to canter
Off to disappear into the mist.
The valley drops away from Pillow Mound
And on the southern side, a white mare stands
Alone, unmoved, as if she might become
One with the hillside and an icon cut
Like other figures, deep into the chalk.
The larks above the mist which drew me on
All yesterday have vanished as I squelch
This early morning back towards the ridge
And that ancestral tomb which sits just west
Of Dragon Hill and Uffington’s White Horse
Leaping with the sun into the east.
Seen from Dragon Hill, the Horse leaps westward
Sinking its head beneath the rough-cut mounds
Yet, close to, its form seems to unwind
Vanishing in arcs of blazing light
And casual hints of where it might have been
Linger as chalk scars in the turf.
My way runs through a beech wood where the trunks
Stand like the ritual way, leading me
Down naves of skybound columns, canopied
In shimmering gold, entwined with ivy polished
And patterned like the snaking armlets, cast
Cut and burnished for the goddess’ praise.
As stars appear and the new moon rises
I set a bothy for the long night’s rest
Stacking branches and the lying moss
To keep the wind from chilling me too far,
Warm beneath the wolf-skins and the furs
Of squirrel, ferret, weasel and black mole.
Day break, and the mist which lay unmoved
Has vanished, though the sky above’s still grey
And the wind which dropped as the night fell
Cuts keenly as I break my fast, before
I start my last day towards the confluence
Of sacred streams and this long ridgeway path.
The country here is changed, the copses, filled
With fir and ash, darker and denser set
Between the open downs where herds still roam
Or race across the open headed moor.
A flurry of finches bobs from hedge to hedge
Keeping a gentle distance from my face.
Unseen above, three larks seem to mock
A kite hovering, hungered after days
Of mist which kept him from his prey
Lurking, preening in the autumnal fields.
Two thousand starlings flow silent across
Then lift to murmur in the evening light.
A wood so full of rooks, the trees could be
Alive, but one by one they rise and circle
Silently until the sky is darkened
By their flight, and all the noise is stilled,
As they cloak the evening with their wings.
The pathway drops toward the valley floor
Where the river weirs and shallow runs
Allow a crossing even at full flood.
Here beside the shrine I break the axe,
Cast it in silence out across the weir
To vanish in the water’s broken edge,
As if it had never been, and I
Who cast it, will as quickly disappear
To leave no trace, save fleeting memories
Among the few I loved and who loved me.
©copyright 2021
