A Different Britain

Boudicca’s griffin-riders routed
the mages of Carthage with bale-fire,
elf-shot and dragon’s-teeth
two thousand years ago.

Even now those same immortal beasts
patrol our Anglic coasts
against baleful sendings from
the lost continent,

in the sun, broad paws
treading the violet mists
high over sheep-dotted clover.
Come winter solstice, all Angland

converges at the Henge.
Seven Royal unicorns and
our crimson-scaled Dragon Queen

curve the sacred gyre time
and again through melting snow,
refreshing and protecting
our small universe.

—Jenny Blackford