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Hymn to The White Spring

 
In the beginning I saw nothing  
   
eyes furiously adjusting  
between day and night    
   
a woman held my hand down  
those gnarled stone steps    
as I teetered on the edge  
of nerves and darkness  
   
then, as if a dimmer switch  
gently illuminated sight:  
   
hundreds of candles  
moss covered horns  
   
a huge central pool carved  
out of simplistic stone  
overflowing with spring water.  
   
I sat a little.    
   
Watched naked humans climb    
in and out of that murky wet  
   
admired the bravery  
of going sky-clad before strangers,  
the odd comfort in witnessing  
the ease it occurred as I wandered  
further into the black.    
   
I found Brigid’s altar in a quiet corner  
nesting within an arch of woven branches,  
clootie ribbons plaited into ancient walls  
   
rested on her bench  
soaked in her peace    
asked for blessings on my way  
   
grieved as I found an altar to Cernunnos  
a few feet further into the gloom.  
   
I took my torc from my pocket  
then an antler necklace I had made  
as an amulet. Pressed them against    
the dimly lit shrine. Dipped them    
into cold, mystic water.    
   
I thought of the certainty of Christians.  
   
How easy it must be to walk into churches    
to see a saviour fearlessly displayed  
on every hymnal, every window, every wall  
   
thought of the blood and fire    
that swept England’s    
medieval landscapes  
where old ways were burned    
tortured  
purged  
   
then I opened my eyes    
inside that Pagan temple  
that liminal place  
that cavern of ancient rite  
   
and wept  
   
wept the tears    
of a gold-plated God  
forced to stay  
in one place.
 
   
 
Written by Northern_Soul
Published
Author's Note
Letters to the Old Ways
17/30

Clootie Wells: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clootie_well
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