We still pray the old, old way

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Some rituals are so ingrained their observance survives long after their origins are forgotten. Think of spilled salt, lucky three or touching wood and you'll know what I mean.

Beliefs will pass and all will fade.

Both Prophet and Messiah,

The whole damned lot,

Will be forgot,

As those that went before them.

 

Do you worship Thor or Jove,

Osiris, Zeus or Gaia?

Or breath the names,

Or fan the flames,

Of Set or Zoroaster?

 

Do you recall the spirits now,

Of earth and air and forest?

Unwritten names,

Forgot the same,

As the dust of their believers.

 

Yet there is one, as old as stone,

Our guardian in the darkness,

Our warmth of old,

In caverns cold,

Our comfort and protector.

 

We worship still, but know it not,

In chains we think are freedom.

Unknowing slaves,

We serve, and love,

And fear our fickle master.

 

So this cold night, to our first God,

I kneel once more and offer,

Choice oak and birch,

And seasoned pine,

To the flames upon my altar.

 

 

© Marcus Brook 2017

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