They say
There is a knight
Within the low
A prince
Or warrior
From the old times
Burned bones perhaps
In an urn
Long gone down into the earth
Of dreaming sleep
The roots’ bed
A shroud made of soil.
Maybe he is crouched
In a cist
Of local red stone
With his knees
Drawn up
To his chest
& his favourite
Flagon
Or a sword by his side
Maybe he wears gold
Around his arms
Or on his chest
We will
Never know
& cannot see.
Perhaps he senses us
As we all
Come & go
Back & forth
In the circles
Of our lives
In the sun-rain wheel
Of our years
& seasons
Footsteps on the path
Journeys
On the roaring road.
& when we gather
Can he hear us
Calling out?
Calling out the names
Of villages
He doesn’t recognise?
Paying
Wroth Silver to the
Land’s lord?
Meeting & greeting
Our friends & neighbours
On the wintry morning?
What would
He think of us
If he could see?
In our shiny
Winter gear
Hoods & boots?
Or hear us speak
Would he understand
A single word?
But I think that he would
Understand
Why we keep returning to this place.
Maybe he was born
& bred here
Or his people came from far away
Driven by strife
Through the stormy seas
That surround the island
Whatever his origin
Or life
Now he is our ancestor
By virtue of us
Gathering
At his grave
& whatever his or our origins may be
We the celebrants
Are no longer strangers to him
For we
Just as did he
Recognise the power
Of community.
http://www.wrothsilver.org.uk/
2014: Martinmas
2015: The Road of Time
2016: Wheel of the Year, Wheel of the Land
2017: Eight Decades
2018: Ghosts
2019:
Throw a Penny in the Hollow of the Stone
2020-21 Dear Ancestors
2022: The End of an Era
2023: In the Picture, Making History
