Atecotti. The Oldest Ones.

‘The Oldest Ones’, were spoken of in hushed and whispered tones.
‘The guardians of the Henges.’ ‘The readers of the stones.’
The ones who wore hair feathers, and slept in tents of hide.
The ones who seemed to disappear, like froth borne by the tide.
So mystery breeds legend, and saga finds a home.
For ‘Antlantean’ Atecotti, who threw back mighty Rome.
And story springs from story with the passing on of blood.
Fuelling tales of ‘Hern the Hunter’, and ‘Robin of the Hood’.
Though they were men of flesh, they lived as in a dream.
With a spirit in each stone and tree, a God in every stream.
In harmony with fox and bird, and earth and star and bough.
The Atecotti, reaped and let, sweet Nature push the plough.
An herbal lore, and secret ways, that Druid masters knew.
The knowledge of ‘The Oldest Ones’, passed on to chosen few.
Not dead, but living still they are, where wilderness is cherished.
Where men commune with Nature, Atecotti, have not perished.
In every sheltered ‘fairy dell’, on each stone circled plain.
An Atecotti, spirit dwells, and waits; to come again.

A version of this commissioned poem, was first published in ‘The Forest of Bowland (At The centre Of the Kingdom). 2004. I rushed it a bit so I’ve altered it. A publisher told me that you can change a poem until it’s published, but not afterwards. A Shaman, told me that changing a poem can change the whole shape of time and space. OK. If you perceive the whole shape of time and space changing, and choose to blame me… feel free to do so!

The Bright And Shining Way.

On a Pennine, moor, there runs an ancient Roman road.
Now stark; and lonely is the path where armoured legions strode.
The paving stones lie still exposed, though weather worn and
broken.
And there on nature's table sign, a passing empire's token.
The Sun with hesitation, starts to wrestle with the cloud,
And seems to clothe the moor in a waving misty shroud.
The dew damp stones gleam silver at the breaking of the day,
Like a ribboned band of diamonds; a bright and shining way.
The wispy wraiths of morning mist, slide and curl and twist,
And mockingly shape human forms in every hanging drift.
As if the moor weaves memory, in soft diaphanous braid.
And whimsically; paints on dawn, a ghostly cavalcade.
Reborn in brief and shifting smoke, the image never still,
Across the bounds of time they walk, who trod the heathered
hill.
A rounded helm, A gleaming eye, filled with righteous zeal.
A kilted, claymore bearing rogue in search of beef to steal.
A ragged, panting rushing band, armed with hoes and staves.
And weary, dragging fresh cut stones, despairing Roman slaves.
Roving Norsemen stand aghast, in awe at such construction.
See grim faced Oswald marching north, determined on
destruction.
Here, high on the true highway; there's no easy ambush made.
So carefree pass the travellers shades that cowered in the
glade.
And walking first, before them all on shoes of plaited straw,
A man and woman dressed in skins; gaze, on the vales below.
There, carved out before them by the fast retreating ice.
A fresh and empty fertile land, an Eden paradise.
Then Helios bold in battle, forces his burning sway.
His heat burns off the mists and the phantoms flee away.
Reflected photons leave the moor and leap in constant flight.
And all that passes in the day is held in speeding light.
From star to star, across the void, refracted across space.
In time and light, the record holds the road of human race.
Light years away, a focussed eye turned earthward could behold,
The tramping Roman legions; and all the men of old.
The moor road, and every other road that leads to Rome,
Score the scars of man's design, on the face of his home.
And the pattern of his making, shines in every ray,
Of heaven filling light. A bright; and shining way.