Druid Magick (© Naomi L. Shank, 1991)
I followed him up the trail, a fragrant purple and gold dusting the rolling hillside. His tall spare frame clothed in simple white cotton, worn leather sandals cradling feet like oak roots. Curling silver tendrils of hair flowing downward, reaching almost to his waist.
On the far hill stands the ancient henge, eternal and shimmering in the fading solstice light. Swirling mist lies low, sheltering the treed vale below. My heart racing in anticipation, we step lightly over the bubbling brook. Twinkling rainbow spray over the tumbling, giggling water.
Reaching the tall stones, he turns and smiles, the face I'd thought as granite now kind and loving as any father's. Moving to the center, I close my eyes, senses reeling. My heartbeat steadies. Silence. Energy, like tiny sparks of light trickle in a kaleidoscope of colors down my skin, my feet grow roots anchoring me to the earth. I open my eyes.
He turns now and faces the North. His grizzled beard flecked with down, he stands straight and tall, one hand outstretched, beseeching, the other clamped tight, certain, round the knobby stave of ashen wood. Sunlight glinting off the ruddy hairs of his raised forearm, he calls out in ancient tongue in a voice graveled and deep.
Turning, he circles the ring of white, white stones -- East, South, West, then North again, voice growing ever stronger, ever clearer, touch, touching me deep, deep inside me. Feel my heart grow, my soul takes wings! And as he closes his eyes, I weep. And as the ground beneath my feet begins to tremble, I burst into flame.