You steal through your house, an early thief, at three,
grabbing wellies from the cellar-head, a flask of coffee.
Roadside grasses bow as You stalk past towards Cop Hill,
a wind-bitten figure in green You feel has earned
the right to summon Belenos in this field.
Wedged in between slimy coping stones,
You’re a pre-dawn deity, Overlord of Foxgloves
and Cranesbill, with death-dark cloud-dragons
rearing to Your rule. Even the six red domino lights
on Pole Moor masts wink off at a wave of Your hand.
You sit in judgement on Your drystone throne,
crowned with Your zipped up raincoat hood,
sip brown ambrosia from a plastic flask cup.
Will other gods be jealous of your power
to command the Solstice sun to bloom for You?
A glowering cloud-head Thor blows by, face down.
There’s still some idols you show reverence to;
Gore-Tex, Thermos, Tupperware, Pentax, Heinz.
You scatter dock seeds to appease these few
and wonder how the god of the testaments
might have felt if he’d created sun instead
and watched it rise. But there’s a crack
of doubt in your mind, a half-open eye
that godheads everywhere, from Odin down,
might blast the sandstone pedestal from your feet,
rip off your sacred roof-slates in revenge.
As Njord shoves his shoulder in your ribs
you remember entities equal to yourself
at Castle Hill, Buckstones, Castlerigg, Stonehenge.
- The gods’ names are from Celtic and Norse mythology