The telling of Brochwel

A shrine of stone and wood beneath the sky.
Where horned huntsman keeps his watch.
When calmed, his many hounds grow still,
And timbered breath with ancient vow is bound.
Old thunder-bones are set to mark a wheel
Of moon-told miles and sun-scarred hills.

By seven-fold and one, the wheel is formed,
Each watchful stone stands oath-bound still;
A great sentinel of seasons, fate and hour,
Pale bowlders that call to starlight,
A forge now foxed by nettle, moss, and root,
Where lithic songs are unsealed by rite,
A stream spring pure as the naked air,
Where long departed offer dreadful augury,
And where bygone secrets are revealed.

Walk not straight - step sunwise and attend:
What seems a scatter is the wheel of fate.
All face a hidden centre, stone by stone,
As spokes of void stitch threads ‘tween stars.
An outer guard turning blight aside,
The secret heart sustaining ancient song.

When the sleepers stir from slumber,
And forgotten lexes guide them to single pulse,
Where the wide womb of earthen hands embrace,
And ageless roots with ancient vow are bound,
The Land, long mute, will open hallowed voice,
And by measure turn the awful wheel of fate.

Bitter truths strike thornwise through the breast:
Where tide flows, its waters elsewhere must ebb.
Not by some boundary of that vast source,
But the frailty of worldly flesh and living will.
By lot or strife or trust, a precious few,
Gain sanctuary against the direful night.
Much that is prized will be paid away in loss,
To spare a little of even rarer worth,
And a future where the stars burn still.

Ageless wood and lithic sentries can turn the storm.
Yet not without a reckoning of flesh.
A voice must fail, one beating heart go still,
That pillars of stone may last against the dark.
Two bound by webs of destiny and despair:
One offers their life to save the world that was,
One abides to guide what world shall come.