deepundergroundpoetry.com
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.
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