Beneath the green turf of a low hill
The old gods lie,
Dreaming their dreams,
Flashing teeth and bronze blades,
The wild hunt and white stags,
And the fire of ancient passion in secret glades.
The old gods lie dreaming,
Because their world is lost,
All lies beneath the earth in broken shards
And bog-blackened bones.
Only the blackbird in the blackthorn
Sings their sorrows,
And I watch their tears run,
In the bright spring water.