~Autumn Tide~
by P. D Brown
Now they come from barrow, mound and henge enclosure,
From Low Connie’s winter solstice clock,
And further afield; the mighty three at Thornborough.
A Bronze Age woman rises from Kirkcarrion,
A sun-disc round her neck.
She steps into her ox-drawn waggon,
As skeins of geese fly by,
And all around the earth at Stanwick
Rise the subject dead of Cartimandua the Brython!
Deornoð’s folk from Greenbank’s false crest,
Stripped of grave goods, farewell parting gifts,
Above the Skerne, even denied their place of rest;
We’ll drink to you and try to heal the rift.
And to those who dedicated Roseberry’s tall mount on high
To the highest god, named it Oðinesburg,
We call you up, invite you down,
Whether from Hel, or beyond the sky;
Poetry lovers, who felt the power of words.
Rich smells and scents announce you, of clay and mould and must,
Of wool and linen, leather and sweat,
Skilled in life’s arts, far stronger than us.
Whether those who walked this very same land, or blood of our blood,
We’ll honour you at autumn’s tide, as well we should!
And then there’s those with whom we share not just flesh or home
– Our kindred spirits, who sought the mysteries,
And to us a path, a way have shown;
Who watched the moon and worked in grove and wood,
Who heard the voice of sun-kissed River Tees,
Or moor-top wind’s wild moan.
And last there’s those whose souls have flown
To stoat and bat, to oak and ash, into all things grown.
To them we owe amends and seek their pardon;
To our wrongs must attend; the life that’s gone
From this land’s earthly garden.