he Sacred Fires burn on faery knolls,
on craggy tors, in leafy glens,
kindled in the hearts of the magic users,
witch-folk and seers.

Mayhap our vision is no longer clear,
looking upon cromlech, menhir,
caves and groves of initiation,
feeling instinctively the holiness
of the land permeated with magic
without truly understanding why.

We have lost touch with our mysticism,
the tenuous contact with realms unseen
severed by materialism.

Have we abandoned the old gods,
the Tualtha Da Danann?
Or have we been left,
a changeling at Nature’s breast,
the memory of Tir Tairngire
all but shriven from our being?

We are educated, civilised.

Never has the hand of any conqueror lain more
heavily upon the heart and spirit of a people.

What science had sought to rule, now rules instead,
our Balance sacrificed to the gods of Progress.

But we are merely asleep.

In spite of our commercialism,
some place in our souls remain
uncorrupted still, awaiting the hour
when the deadening influence will be
swept clear of our most psychic selves.

And so for now we dream, enchanted
like Merlyn in a cave near Carthmarthen
with the sorceress Ninian, until Arthur returns
to break the spell.

In this time will our spiritual bondage end,
and we will become as we were before,
true children of Arthur.

And the Sacred Fires shall blaze forth once more.

Zyalia

©1994 by Trish Reynolds