Posted on May 11, 2012


The cowled figure walks
As silent as the still sky
Trees around him unmoving
Yet they sigh

He moves slowly to his
Destination over fallen leaves
Head bowed low
Not a whisper breathed

The moon above looks down
Fat and full
Hungry for what’s below
Where men now rule

The figure almost there
At the holy place
Where others of his kind
For him they await

Finally he arrives
At the standing stones
Rising tall
They chill to the bone

Then the murmuring begins
Rising to chants
As he arrives in the centre
All are entranced

He approaches the centre
Stone head still covered
Looking on it
As he does a lover

Then something moves
On the stone
As the moon shines her rays
On the figure who does groan

The robed figure removes
His cowl to show an ancient face
Of his druid bloodline
From this island race

The figure on the stone
Then screams with fear
As the ancient druid
Holds a knife up clear

Her final screams die away
As the knife hits flesh
The harvest will be good this year
As he cleans away the knifes mess

The bloodstone is left
With the girl still there
She’ll be cared for later
Honoured with gifts and pray

Posted in: Poetry