27/02/2026
The Journey to Annwfn
Within the circle, gnarled and vast,
Where shadows of the ancients cast,
The Great Oaks stand as silent kings,
To hear the song the spirit sings.
The Druid stands in linen white,
A ghost against the coming night,
As Ordovices, noble, free,
Gather beneath the sacred tree.
From the peaks of Powys’ land,
The tribes come down, a silent band;
Men and women of mountain-fold,
With torcs of iron and hammered gold.
The drumbeat sounds a hollow thrum,
As senses fade and limbs grow numb;
The Druid sinks beneath the root,
To seek the spirit’s hidden fruit.
Down through loam, past bone and stone,
To realms where Ceridwen is known,
The Mother of the Cauldron’s fire,
Who brews the draught of soul’s desire.
A glimmer stirs the damp and dark,
A sudden, spectral, ivory spark;
White Boar emerges, pale as bone,
To tread the paths of the liminal zone.
With tusks of silver, eyes of flame,
He calls the seeker by secret name,
Crashing through mists where Fae folk dwell,
Leading the way to Annwfn’s dell.
They enter now the mist-veiled gate,
Where Annwfn’s hallowed wonders wait;
White Boar stands at the cauldron’s rim,
As shadows dance on every limb.
Then from that vessel, dark and deep,
Where three drops of the ages sleep,
The Awen rises, gold and bright,
A blinding flash of inner light.
This holy breath, this flowing grace,
Illuminates the Druid’s face;
The Three Small Rays begin to shine,
Connecting mortal to divine.
With visions etched in heart and brain,
The seeker climbs to earth again,
Back to the grove where the Druids wait,
Standing guard at the spirit gate.
The rite now ends in breath and flame,
Calling each Brythonic name,
While deep within the oaken heart,
The worlds remain, no more apart.
Jonny Floyd
