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!