Druids edited 17 july 2015

The long day closes,streets are still and
drinkers home abed, the woodland black,
safe in the hands of moths and fox ,
I shall wait the sun the footpath tripped
with roots,  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 of their parliament that are of the Druids.
Ancient long ago, so long,uncountable ,unknowable
a past on which we build foundations deep, secure.
an order that we follow, did we but know the truth.