Lud's Church Poem by Mary Champion

In an age long gone the fault line in the gritstone give way
and slid helplessly into the Dane Valley.

Dark, and treacherously damp,
the steps slip down amidst the shadows,
sinking into the ancient mystery,
of this deep chasm hid within the Black Forest,
its chill breath catching the passer by unawares.

The intrepid traveller may walk its narrow length,
hemmed in by towering rocks,
dripping with green mosses
clothed with green ferns, green grasses,
overhung with a canopy of intermeshing trees.

There are times
you may sense the presence of some restless spirit
trapped amidst the verdant darkness.

How many fugitives from law
or bigotry have sheltered here,
protected by the gloom
of the chasmic walls?

Here, where men have worshipped their forbidden Gods
in defiance of Rome,
and before them,
at Midsummer,
when the sun briefly warms its depths,
Pagans performed their ceremonies
and sacrifices.
And, even in this enlightened age,
some still make furtive offerings
to the tenacious gods of the Earth.