In Ancient Gaul,
Before the pillage of Rome
Descrecrated the Sacred Grove
The Druids gathered
In the Land of the Carnute Tribe,
The winter’s Solstice
The last day of deepening darkness
The sun wheel turning
Seeking the mistletoe
Climbing the upper reaches of the Oak
Reaching into the moonlight
For a gift, sent from the Sky by the Gods
A sickle of a gold, the herb tumbles
Into a mantle of white linen, outstretched
To fall to earth, all its power is reclaimed
On the ridge, fires are ignited
Beacons heralding the renewal of light
New sparks kindled throughout the countryside
In pine-laden hearths of simple peasant folk
The Legions of Julius Caesar,
In their conquest of Celtic Gaul,
Set to flame the Oak Grove
In the Middle Ages, Churches of a New Religion
Were erected on the site, the spires of Chartes Cathedral
Rows of trunk-like columns
Leaf and Branch carved into the stonework
Tiered Towers Transcendent
A centrifugal presence soaring skyward
Dwarfing the red-tiled roofs of the town
The vineyards and green grazing pastures beyond
A rose window facing west
In Medieval Times, under the dark vault,
In the nave of the sanctuary, Pilgrims walked
A singular, Labyrinth path
Recreating journeys
To distant holy lands
Hallowed sites of faith
But for fortune they can not trod nor
Bear witness to themselves
December the 25th,
Ordained the Birth of the Christ Child
By the church elders
Supplanting the Feast of Mithras
Who, too, was cave-born to a maiden
The calendar re-aligned
Confirmed their vision
Yet, in a way, recovering things
Long forgotten but not lost
Sacred places transform
Endure and remain
One-ness is in the source