The tunnel was only long enough,
For the darkness to be complete.
Cruciform, it parted to three niches.
In each, stone urns of charred flesh.
But on the winter solstice,
The sun pierces the cross’ cleft.
A priestess waits in the trinity,
And is born again from the light.
The novice, with hair of flames,
Taps the stones along the cairn.
Her music pleases the fairies,
And directs the wind back home.
She revolves with the wind,
White robes carrying the ash,
Torsion. Twisting copper flares,
One stone reaches out for her.
They burn for her, the seer.
She kneels to hear the stone.
The novice touches the spirit,
Remembers her to the living.
As the sun warms her skin,
She laughs. It wasn’t the moors,
Or trees, so generous with greens.
The dark and stones gave root.
