The long day closes,
safe with moth and fox,
silent owl and timid badger.
I wait the sun, paths tripped
with roots as the soil shrinks,
leaching in the drought.
The wood a secret place.
If you believe in pixies do not go at night
to tread those toad-stool circles
that are of the Druids, ancient, long ago, ,
unknowable, a past on which we build deep
foundations, secure, an order we follow,
did we but know the truth
No message left, Romans saw to that
long before the Glastonbury legend.
Stone circles stand proud today
architecture tuned to nature,
not cold as Cathedrals' Gothic pride,
honest stone wrought from earth
not carved with maul and chisel.
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Comments about this poem (Druids by John Rickell )
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