"Sanctuary"

Approaching entrance, doe

stepping across my path, sure

footed, certain of her place amid

bustling and creeping world of

fecund fertility.

Where were her children?

Fawns sheltered in verdant

bushes lea awaiting devoted

mother’s return, wholly

centered upon their

holy one.

Great mother, your

little ones cry

for new milk that you,

unhesitating, pass on

to this new generation,

as was done

for centuries.

Standing here amid

ruins that speak of

those who later came;

stone builders taking

place that before,

circled in yew,

spoke of early

unforgotten powers

joining together the

ragged earth and

perfection of that first

garden and you who

stood as doorkeeper

to mysteries and were

in time adopted to

new religion

while yet retaining

hedgerow woven magic,

trailing blossoms for

aged kings on mounds

where ever-blessed are

wont to dance on

longest days.

I smile when I enter;

all who went before inspire

this moment. Fateful jar

and sacral meal lifted, filling

to the brim. Old and new

conjoining, conforming

weave their spell and

I am found within,

without, sanctuary.

© Phil Kemp 2025