The Bones of Ynys Môn
The last stand of the Druids
The old ones bring their enchantments to the white stones,
rising like bones from the cliffs of Ynys Môn.
Crag-faced and hag-ridden, ponies dying beneath them,
they cast runes to hide their path
from the eyes and hounds of men.
On the shores of Mona, her folk gather.
Wild haired, robed in death,
furies bearing torches
ride along the lines
of boys and old men.
Their war cries reach across the Straits,
strike fear into the minds of the iron men.
Fear and the sea cannot hold back the enemy.
Relentless on horseback,
the iron men ride on through the waves,
smite all who oppose them to the earth.
Ancient oak falls before the axe,
sacred groves rooted out,
wrapped in flames
kindled by iron hearts.
The old ones’ magic powerless,
for iron renders it a cold thing,
a dead thing.
