The Iron and the Oak

Green were the groves in Gallic woodlands, Broad the branches in Britannia’s vales. Deep was the doctrine of Druidic circles, Bards and bird-seers, a brotherhood old. Ovates in oak-woods omens unravelled, Holding the hearth-lore of a hardy people. Spanning the soil their spirit was law, Weaving their wisdom through winter and spring. Emperors’ eagles, eager for war, Senate and soldiers sought to subdue Tribes that were tethered to tree and sky. Hating the hold of the hoary priests, Captains claimed they were cruel and savage, Spreading the story of slaughtered men To justify judgments with javelins thrown. Rome could not rule where the roots ran deep, Fearing a faith not forged by the sword.   Felled were the forests on Frankish shores, Gallic groves grew grimly red. Sea-ships sailed to the shores of the Britons, Seeking the sanctuary on the sacred isle. Mona the misty, with magic filled, Where wild-eyed wardens waited the strike. Curses were cast across the channel, But swords of the state were swift to bite. Legions loudly laid their claim: "Stone-paved streets and structured days! Gone are the gods of the gloomy woods, Banished the barbarous beliefs of the past!" Yet silver and slaves they sought to gather, Crushing the kings for the coin of Rome. Roots remained though the rot struck deep, Whispers woven in the wind and rain. Gods of the glens gained Roman names, Mingling magic with marble shrines. Fireside fables as the flames burned low Kept the old courage in Celtic hearts. Long the legions locked the land, But the soul of the soil slept unvanquished.