The summer thunder chatters in the west
As though
The ghost of Caesar’s iron legions go
Behind the hills.

The ancient oaks are shadowy and still,
The mistletoe
Subservient in the argent of the glow
Of moonlight, waits the golden sickle’s will.

The woods await the thaumaturgic tune
That called the old gods beneath a younger moon,
And will await until the gods come back.
I know
They will return, who, going, left the slow
Still circle broken and the altar black.

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