Tag: history

Touching the Stones at Stonehenge

These black Leviathans, the Stones,
Point to constellations beyond mortal sight,
Point to the land beyond death,
Silent Sentinels, surround the vulva,
Of the Great Mother Goddess
Brooding looming into Palaeolithic night,
 
Was there chanting, writhing in light?
Faces painted, lips spewing rhythmic groans,
Pagan souls yearning the Goddess?
Sacrificing the innocent to dark sight,
Screaming, in drunken stupor,
To the Immortal, earth's eternal breath.
 
The feathered shaman, blowing fetid breath,
Of herb, wine, straining with glazed sight,
Summoning the strangeness, the nectar.
Of sacrificial blood, and over the stones,
The shrieks, the groans, the innocents' plight,
Presides the Great Bird Snake Goddess.
 
Yet this primordial circle of the Goddess,
Vibrates to the Universal rhythm, the breath
Of celestial scars, their shooting flight,
Pulsating through pagan bodies to ignite,
The tame, nurturing visions buried in bones,
Revealing mysteries of the Great Mother.
 
With flowers, ivy, blood and wine they beseech her,
The dancer, the chanter, the shaman, the godless,
Entreat her; beguile her, to appear in the stones,
To come from the dream soul, from the land beyond death,
To tear through the blanket of night, to come into sight,
To take their mortal souls into the eternal light.
 
To feel the Beloved and Terrible Goddess's might,
The bite of the snake the flight of their Snakebird Mother,
Taking their souls to the celestial abode, the light,
Fearless, ageless, seated with her on her totemic dais.
Far above the carvers of fear, of blackness and death,
And it is this for which they chant amongst the groans, the stones.
 
To touch the stones is to yearn for sight of pagan night.
For light upon the blood rites of rebirth and death,
Within the stone vulva of the Snake-bird Goddess of the night

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Katy Walters