English Fire

Seven brides serve me seven sins,
seven seas writhe for me.
From orient gates to R'lyeh,
Abydos to Thessaly.

And Sirens sing from stern
but now I cease to play, for I
yearn to return to woodland ferns
where Herne and his wild huntress lay.

Now the tidal are turning, spurning the darkness!
The great purgations of distinguished tours
are but stills in time to the thrill that I'm
once more heading to the bedding of her english shores.

The wind bickered in satanic mill sails,
eyes flickered in deep thickets of trees.
And mists clung tight in panic to vales
when Brigantia spoke her soul to me.

From Imbolg to Bealtaine,
Lughnasadh to Samhain feasts
I heard her lament as season's blent,
together a chimerical beast!

Now the tidal are turning, churning in darkness!
The celebrations of extinguished wars are but stills
in time to the chill that climbs once more,
dreading the red weddings on her english shores.

Gone are the rustic summers of my youth,
cruel winters cut their sacred throats
with polished scythes that reap worldwide
pitch black skies and forest smoke.

And the hosts that I saw there,
drones of carrion law,
drove the ghosts of my forbears
to rove and rally once more.

One of her sons from the vast
far-flung come home to rebuild,
the rampant line of the Leonine
risen over pestilent fields.

Now the tidal are turning, burning in darkness!
The salvation of her hungry sword shalt spill
like wine from the hills to chines that pour,
spreading her beheadings on these english shores.

For the hosts that I saw there,
drones of carrion law,
drove the ghosts of my forbears
to rove and rally once more.

This is a waking for England
from it's reticent doze.
This is a waking for England,
lest hope and glory are regarded as foes.