Cascading voices, as if from waves
throughout the resounding seaside caves,
call to promise ancestral return
while the dreamful stars smoulder and burn.
The wind whistles through resonant cracks
in mountainsides, betwixt seastacks,
while trees of a wood sacred long ago
whisper secrets only druids know
and an antler crown lays amongst roots,
skull white, hollowed eyes abloom with shoots.
Calling…Calling….Call from the Hall King—
hark and listen well, like a thrall thing
to the music that wends round the stones
standing in rows above bygone bones
of old kings, old gods, and oldest earth,
that secret-keeper with deaf-mute turf
where seas, forgotten, have gone to grass
and titans once strode by leagues to pass
with thunderous song and looming shade,
now but echoes that will in time fade.