The Red bubbles forth from a hole in a hill,
A Chalice for the Ages, a legend for the telling;
Intertwining circles, fern and moss and blood,
Shelves of ancient knowledge, Wicca for the selling.
The White seeps forth from a hole in a hill,
Crystal pure and crisp, runs to meet the Red;
Like holly and like mistletoe, the colours swirl to One
And fertile, fairytale union meet below the dual springhead.
The Tor soars sharply, a Zodiac of myth,
Marion Zimmer Bradley's ashes blow here, high above her Mist;
A tower stands in phallic state, the earthquake has not toppled,
Below, the fecund sedge moors, the land that Avalon has kissed.
The Thorn grows stunted, and leans into the wind,
A staff struck into stony ground, by feet in ancient time;
To flower in the winter, a cold and reckless bloom,
To blossom in the dearth of life, to ripen in the rime.
The Abbey stands derelict, its glories faded past,
Its arches crashed, its crypts laid bare, naked to the skies;
Its lands sequestered, torn asunder, Saxon kings rest hid,
And children romp and dogs fetch sticks, above where Arthur lies.
Ynys Witrin, Isle of Glass, the entrance to Annwn,
A distant beam of sunlight glows the mighty towers of Wells;
The crack in yonder Mendips, shows me Cheddar's village charm,
But here in Yvaine's Avalon, the heart of mystery dwells...