"The Tomb of the King"

The Tomb of the King
by Damh the Bard


Beneath a mist-capped mountain,
An oaken forest did grow,
Around and ancient trackway,
that led to the old Barrow.

On a starlit night on the dark of the moon,
A torch lights the funeral pyre,
And the iciness in the tribe's hearts,
Are warmed by the heat of the fire.
Then the Druids move in with the dawn,
As the circle of people they sing,
And the ashes are gathering together,
And taken to the Tomb of the King.

Then down through history they changed,
And the Sacred Grove it came,
On the night of initiation,
An ordeal of terror and pain,
The warriors stood in the forest,
With the herbs rubbed into their brows,
Then they turned to face the darkness,
Of the old Barrow.

Then down through history they changed,
When a woman cold and bare,
Ran into the darkened forest,
And into the Ancestor's Lair,
Then men on horseback drew near,
And they looked into the mouth of the hill,
Then they left that bitch, that healer, that Witch,
Until all in the forest was still.

In a Parliament House in London town,
A part of our heritage dies,
The road builder's plan is blessed by a cheque,
as the blood of the signature dries,
Then the monsters move in with the dawn,
As the circle of people they sing,
And the old oaks are cut from the earth,
As they tear down the Tomb of the King.

As I sit in the silence of my car,
I notice that not much has changed,
More cars just use this road now,
And the traffic jam now has three lanes,
Still my dream takes me back to the time,
When in the circles we sing,
Under a moonlit sky,
To heal the Tomb of the King.

Beneath a mist-capped mountain,
An oaken forest did grow,
Around and ancient trackway,
that led to the old Barrow.

Dreams and Urgency and Fatigue

Last night I woke around 3am and was awake until well after four. My thoughts kept swirling around the Ereshkigal devotional: what I was going to write, how I was going to divide the material I have in mind, how much personal disclosure I'm going to do, and etc.

When I finally got back to sleep, I dreamed about being in a room with five or six other women dressed in outfits ranging from the 1920's back to not-sure-when, most of whom had at least a slightly scandalous reputation, and all of whom were authors. Subtle, my subconscious is not.

Then I had a dream about pulling from my backside a pencil, lots of long dark hair, and a long, thick piece of rubbery-sticky stuff. Getting unstuck regarding my creativity, perhaps?

I've been feeling very run down the past couple of days, and very out of contact with the inner. My teacher has assured me before that these intervals happen to everyone from time to time, and while I need to be firm with myself where my practices are concerned and not let myself off the hook too easily, there are some days when it just ain't happening, and that's okay.

This evening, in stark contrast to last week's encounter with Tiwaz, I said bluntly, "I'm really tired. In fact, I'm feeling kind of overwhelmed right now, and I ask your support in my time of weakness. I promise I'll get back on top of things soon. But right now I ask your patience and help." And he was fine with that, saying in effect, That's part of what being a god is about.

It's 8:45pm and I think I'm heading for bed.