Branwallader and the Tomb of Helen

(A Legend of St Brelade’s Church)

It was a stormy night, such as we had never seen

The wind was stronger than it had even been

The sky was alive with light, and thunderous groan

The waves pounded the shore, high the spray was thrown

And into this, came a boat with strangers to our land

Seeking shelter in the corner of the bay, upon the sand.

By day, the strangers made a shelter of wood upon the hill

Although their tongue was strange, they seemed to bear no ill

And as the days turned into weeks, and months, we heard

And understood, and soon our people were enraptured

And took to joining in the lilting chant they sang

But my heart was troubled, and at this I felt a pang.

To the North of the corner of our bay, there was a sacred grove

A place of ancient stones where mystic charms were wove

And we revered this site of the gods of streams and stones

This place in which we saw dreams foretold from buried bones

The tomb of Hélène, the name here from times long past

In which we made our sacrifice of blood to placate the ghast.

But now the tomb fell silent, as all but few had left the sacred way

Processing away instead, with wooden cross held high, to pray

To this man they say was god, who died and rose again

Gave a promise that this sacrifice was for each and all men

And we few make a lonely vigil, to sing the ancient song

At our own stone table, where our beliefs still belong.

Their leader, Branwallader by name, saw us there

And took himself to the rocks in solitude and prayer

When he returned, he gathered all his folk, and all the tribe

And we knew then that our worship he would proscribe

Soon the dance of the oak would end, the stones be gone

And all would be lost, no one to praise our pantheon.

By night, they lit torches, and while we slept, they worked

A dozen hauled the stones down from the hill, none shirked

Until the task was complete, and our sacred tomb taken away

And our gods did nothing to prevent this to our great dismay

The stones themselves were broken up, apart from very largest

Which were made a foundation, and here they were craftiest.

This was the tale of Tomberlaine, our sacred shrine of stone

And how they took it from where it stood to the very last bone

That lay buried there, and moved it downwards by the sea

And scattered what they could not use, then what was left to be

To form a cornerstone for their new shrine, their risen man

And so the old beliefs would wane away in just one brief lifespan.

I am the last of the cult of the oak and tree and stone and rain

And there is nothing left now but in sad memory pain

I tell the tale so that my children will not quite forget

Although in strange form it may be retold, and beget

When none remembers where the stone table once did lay

For all, but I, have now left to rejoice and pray.