Saturday, 25 October 2008
The Return Of The Druid
The Return Of The Druid.
In a stream of dream a sacred river ran,
Along an ancient channel, a path to the past,
It flowed deep into my very being,
Bubbling backwards to its beginning,
Time unravelling as the strands of a helix,
To the sacred source of my becoming.
From a spring upon Croagh Patrick,
My pilgrimage began, as a rain drop to the sea,
Atop that reek I ran as a rivulet,
Silver flashing down its stony flanks,
Swift as an eagle strikes its prey,
Merging into streams that slipped the stack.
Through mountain veins I chased and roared,
Scouring quartz and stealing its treasure,
Flakes of glittering dust gathered in my fingers,
Then swept away by my glistening torrents.
In the cave of Crom Cruach I heard the whispers,
Of twelve princes who await a new dawn,
When the time of our world has finally come,
And they can rise from beds of rough stone,
Unbowed before the crozier, they shall mock its lies,
And walk the land again, with power and pride.
Fed with milk and grain, the crooked head shall reign,
As High King again over the Emerald Isle.
Gushing through a gash I arrive in the sun,
As a fount of spring water, cold as ice,
Glimmering and shivering with flakes of gold,
I exult in my freedom, splashing the stones,
Granting sanctuary to the trout and pike,
And cloaking the green hills with mighty oaks.
From a crystal pollaphuca into a stream I flow,
Past where the Púca na Samhna roams,
Wild horse of the waters, spirit steed,
Foaled amidst sun and rain, as a rainbow born,
Mane of midnight black, amber eyes of sulphur,
A night mare of mayhem, prophet of the future.
In Clew Bay I found my host, my Grail,
In which my sacred spirit could incarnate,
I assumed the form of a wild salmon,
Claymore of the ocean, wave wanderer,
Who spawns amidst rivers then seeks the sea,
Running from fresh water to the salted waves.
For six long years I roamed the wild ocean,
Leapt and swam the cold waters of the Atlantic,
My clan and I hunted in a pack for our prey,
Squid, shrimp and sprats, herring and sand eels,
Were our natural bounty and sacred harvest,
Until the call of the spawn drove me to return.
Then upon the sea shore a fisherman came,
Who with rod and line lured my fighting jaw,
And feathered hook snagged me to land,
My lust reddened fins and scales shone in the sun,
As treasure drawn from the dark depths of the sea,
Rich with protein and golden precious oils.
As the shell remained dead upon the spit,
My living spirit underwent transubstantiation,
The tender pink meat upon my bones,
Carried with it my soul which was devoured,
And underwent another transformation,
From rain, to stream, to river, to salmon then to man.
Upon the Boheh Stone I sat and saw the sun,
Set afire the peak of Croagh Patrick,
And split the year in three equal parts,
Then that golden orb rolled as a ball,
Down the northern shoulder of the mountain,
Marking the seasons, sowing and harvest.
Beside a stream I sat panning for treasure,
Sifting the silt with a golden fleece for grains,
Which had slipped from the sacred mountain
In melt of sleep and flash flood of dream,
Seeking within its waters, precious nuggets,
Of its poetry plucked from deep within the rocks.
In a bend of stream nestled a placer deposit,
Where a clutch of nuggets the size of wrens eggs,
Had gathered in a nest of glittering riches,
Drawn deep from within the bowels of the earth,
Then migrated within the flowing waters,
Roosting amidst the mire as beneath an eagles wing.
I plunged my hand into that clear flow,
As a prophet into the waters of time,
And drew forth each nugget from the waters,
Twelve shining rocks of precious argent,
Each ready for the mercurial alchemical fire,
To be transformed into a higher form.
In the shadow of a scared stone circle,
I begun the sacred ritual of transmutation,.
The great work of material evolution,
With a fire stick and my breath,
Blew life into a spark and stoked the furnace,
Prepared a clay womb for its conception.
Thrice since its birth in the heart of a star,
The gold in the crucible blisters and bubbles,
In a moment transforming from a solid to a liquid,
Molten it runs, frantic as a coursed hare,
Seeking to escape its captivity in the cauldron,
As Taliesin once sought to evade Ceriddwen.
A serpent spitting with sparks and ire,
Ran from the mould as a worm of fire,
Then slithered into its womb of clay,
Hissing as it sought its escape,
The serpents egg of steam and smoke,
Addling into a precious treasure.
From the stone broke free a golden sickle,
The tool of an adept, a Druid of the Bardic tradition,
And with reverence I burnished it bright,
Until it shone as the sheen of the sun itself,
Made to cut the cord of child and moon,
It was blessed in the sea at midnight.
On the sixth day of the moon I approached the oak,
Hailed the healer and gave due praise,
The brought forth the unbound bulls,
White as milk and ripe with vigour,
Then made the sacrifice with the golden blade,
And anointed the tree with sacred blood.
I ascended that sacred oak of lightning strike,
And with my golden sickle of the sun,
Struck free the mistletoe of the moon,
Whose clusters of white ripe berries,
Hung succulent and smooth, soft as a woman’s breast,
Upon a tine of its royal stag antlers.
In a cloth of white the moon berries were caught,
And praise given to mighty Taranis,
The sun and moon upon the solstice, unified,
As in the primal act of conception,
Whose seed of all healing may now be used,
To bring life to a barren womb and stop all poisons.
The precious elixir brought forth wisdom,
Crowned the mind with spiritual truth,
The illumination of the sun itself, flowed forth,
Into the mind itself, bringing revelations,
The three sun beams of Menw the Aged,
Bright upon the shining brow of the awakened ones.
Then the legions of the eagle came,
And cut down our sacred groves,
Even the oaks of Taranis,
Were felled with their savage blows,
Greed crazed they came for gold,
Too primitive to see the real treasures
Of song and poem and art and science,
That were just a few of our accomplishments,
The beauty of women and strength of men,
These were the gold of the Druids,
Not trinkets of metal eked from the earth,
As craved by barbarian Rome, the doom of beauty.
The last of the Druids closed the circle,
His hands delivered our gold to the waters,
Returning our treasures to the earth,
Then walked into the Otherworld,
And entered once more Tír na nÓg,
Awaiting his rebirth far into the future.