Scribblings – The seat of a waterproof god

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

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