An island sits in cold, cold seas,
voices whispering all across it
carrying far in the furious winds.
Oh island, cease your mourning,
winds, wail no more.
Can’t you see? Those half-remembered stories
are still in love with you.
Their ages-old players roam still
across the lands, forgotten Gods
on Albion’s shores.
One-eyed Woden wanders the moors;
O traveller, have You far yet to go?
Nodens wades in the waves as they crash
against the ancient coastline.
Do You hear us calling?
These islands are alive, don’t you hear?
Its Gods are alive, can’t you see?
The hills are alive with the voices
of myriad gods calling, calling, calling.
Gwyn lives still in the Tor,
Herne’s chains rattle on winter nights,
and far in the north the winter hag
is tending to Her well.
They are alive, They are here.
They never left.