Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Stations in the sacred landscape

Henge, barrow and midsummer hill

Henge, barrow and midsummer hill
Are stations in the sacred landscape.
Here the timeless Goddess enters
The times of her tribes. It was lifetimes back
And what it meant we have almost forgotten,
Almost forgotten.

We killed a child
With great honour and buried her body
Curled like a snail at the heart of the henge
Where earth spirits might rise through her grave,
Follow the curve of the bent bones
And spiral out among villagers dancing
The sunwheel dance that is danced in spring.
A captive ghost, in my meditation,
She takes my hand, but I cannot lead her
Beyond the ring where the magic fixed her.
She will be four years old forever,
And crowned with flowers.

But all the rest of us
Have to be laid in tribal earth
To be remade by the winter Goddess
Before we come back to the world again.
She is the sow that eats her farrow,
Old bones cracking within the barrow,
But to those whom she fails to frighten
A giver of gifts.

No corpses lie
On midsummer hill, but of all the stations
This is the saddest. The sun on high
Burns, burns as midsummer’s Queen
Hands over her whitening world to death-
The fields by severance and the woods
By slow decay. With her hair combed out
In its red gold sheaves she is perfect strength
And perfect beauty about to fade
As from this moment summer does-
And the child will leave its mother and
The long procession wind down the hill.

Tony Grist

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Avebury in 1722 by William Stukeley

Dowsing History's Mysteries

To map the magic of the Rollright Ring
To feel the lines of force pulse through the air
To lay its megalithic secrets bare
In the stillness of a summer evening
To walk in wonder through the Avebury Stones
And track earth’s whispering patterns there
Then dowse the rings about the Devil’s Chair
And know the nature of their undertones
To stand in awe within the Stonehenge zone
And check the powers that charge the winter’s air
To probe its dazzling patterns, then dare
To sound the secrets of the Slaughter Stone
To view the world from Silbury’s soaring crest
And sense the power throbbing in its core
In tune with Gaia’s geodetic law
These earthly enigmas I treasure best.
These monuments were raised by men who knew
The patterned secrets in the planet’s crust
Who harnessed Gala’s power with sacred trust
In circle, barrow, hill and avenue.
Their sacred circles now stand vandalised
The sarcens grey and shattered lie around
Razed by religious zealots to the ground
Who saw Satan in the circles they despised.
Yet Silbury Hill still thrusts towards the sun
Like the breast of a giant Amazon
Immune to all, this cryptic paragon
Preceded Mycenae, Crete and Babylon
And like the pyramids win also be
As enduring as Everest, or the sea

Denis Wheatley

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Amid the general ruin unsubdued

Silbury Hill

O Thou, to whom in the olden time was raised
Yon ample Mound, not fashion'd to display
An artful structure, but with better skill
Piled massive, to endure through many an age,
How simple, how majestic is thy tomb!
When temples and when palaces shall fall,

And mighty cities moulder into dust,
When to their deep foundations Time shall shake
The strong-based pyramids, shall thine remain
Amid the general ruin unsubdued,
Uninjured as the everlasting hills,
And mock the feeble power of storms and Time.

Rev William Crowe (1745-1829) of Alton Barnes, Wiltshire, England.

Saturday, October 06, 2007

The Mound of Hostages. Image credit Ken Williams/

The Heart of Ireland

Skryne, Faughan, Lismullen, Tara,
Look around these hills of drama,
For if there is a heart to Ireland
It beats here, where we now stand.

Each ditch and mound, earthwork, embankment
Tells its story of burial and settlement,
Worship of ancient Gods, of gatherings
Right back to the time of the old High Kings.

The very folds in the landscape hold our history
And beyond that, our myth and mystery.
This is home to the Goddess Maebh
Honoured here three thousand years.

Once a Royal City filled the whole of Gabhra
And vast timber temples formed the sanctuary of Tara.
Here fought our heroes from the time of the Fianna,
And Kings were crowned by the Tuathá de Danann.

At the mound of Hostages, Duma na nGiall,
First home to the stone of destiny, Lia Fáil,
Perfectly aligned with sunrise Samhain and Imbolc,
And every full moon in honour of Lugh.

So standing here now, let’s contemplate
What will be Ireland’s fate,
If we build a road through the valley of Gabhra
And destroy the sacred sites round Tara?

What will the future say of us,
When we in our turn, are ancestors
If we are responsible for the desecration
Of the most powerful symbol of our nation?

So lost are we to a sense of self,
Intent on destroying our truest wealth,
Only a people who do not understand
Could so wound the heart of Ireland.

Or will we become the generation
Who refused to allow this violation?
Who’ll fight to the end like heroes before
Because we know what it is we’re fighting for.

So our children’s children’s children can stand
As we now stand on this sacred land,
Feel its heartbeat, know its power,
Cos’ we saved Tara in her darkest hour.

Dearbhaile Bradley
Chief Bard of Ynys Witrin 2007

Monday, October 01, 2007

Through the solar field. Image credit Tim Norris

1000 Oceans

well i can't believe that i would keep
keep you from flying
and i would cry 1000 more
if that's what it takes to sail you home
sail you home, sail you home

i'm aware what the rules are
but you know that i will run
you know that i will follow you
over silbury hill through the solar field
you know that i will follow you

Tori Amos