deepundergroundpoetry.com
The lighting of the flame
I walk barefoot
calling to the heart
of Brigantes land
listen to the crow of moorland
shiver those dark, dead bones
… do you hear me, old ones
is your howl the feral fire
that stokes this Pagan blood
.
.
.
hail to the watchtowers,
the cardinal directions
hail to the sun, moon
and all her stars
hail to my beloved England
as she unfurls before me
singing the song of place,
the indigenous birthright
of alchemy—
stoke your fires deep within
so mote it be
so mote it be.
Published 1st Apr 2024
Author's Note
Letters to the Old Ways
1/30
1/30
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 6
reading list entries 0
comments 2
reads 193
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
1st Apr 2024 10:18am
1st Apr 2024 4:27pm
Hello M,
For me this poem ignited the words and poem from first to last. Like a blessing or chant for the lands but perhaps also the forfathers\ancestors of the lands. I enjoyed the read
For me this poem ignited the words and poem from first to last. Like a blessing or chant for the lands but perhaps also the forfathers\ancestors of the lands. I enjoyed the read
