Glastonbury Sunrise (in honour of National Poetry Day)

A dew-decked spider’s doily

Low hanging in the mist

Hawthorn berries, deadly nightshade

Drenched and ruby-kissed

Limpid sheen on rolling fields

Old oaks a spectral print

Quiet breath of ruminants

Their bodies indistinct

And all the while the silent Tor

Stands guardian of the realm

Worn down by countless pilgrims’ feet

Who’ve reached the Druids’ helm

Where pagans danced to strident chords

Invoking gods of old

And knights of legend bent the knee

In awe of histories told

Did truly Arimathea’s thorn

Sprout everlasting there?

And was the chalice here concealed

A quest for he who’d dare?

Ah, Glastonbury, haunt and height

You call the faithful stream

And breathe afresh your shy mystique

For all who care to dream


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