The glow of a midnight moon touches
The tears of night’s cold gaze.
The moor rolls heaven’s stars
On into the great forest.
Who will ride to the grove
During autumns chilly nights?
None other than the moon worshiper
His cloak loose and divine.
Knots of the Celts painted on his face
His eyes envy green.
To the grove he rides to meet them,
The druids of his own clan.
Their horses hushed at the grove’s edge
A circle formed with rocks.
Each flattened stone with a symbol,
Matching each of the worshiper’s cloaks.
Chanting begins slowly
Their arms raised to the sky.
To the moon they pray for life itself
Pray they never die.
The fire burns brightly
From the moon to the druid’s heart.
His soul one with the forest
With the fire he heals its pain.
The ivy begins to sprout
From the trees of the grove.
From his hand to his fingertips
The moon begins to glow.
The yellow glow swirls round,
The great plants begin to grow.
The runes pulse with ancient light
The elders raw power.
As their eyes burn bright
The trance still strong.
The worshipers chant slows slightly
His eyes still envy green.
The arms all fall.
Their heads swing low.
The runes stop their humming.
It has been done.
To his horse he walks,
On its back he mounts
From the grove he rides on autumns night,
The forest now full of life.