The fogou doesn’t sit on, or under, but is nestled in the land.

Crawl you first, now safe, hold my willing hand.

 

Candle drips light, showing shadow and your face.

No flame has been wrought, that can ever light this place.

 

Cornish Gods present, we humbly bow to they.

Careful whisper to each, and to The Lord we pray.

 

Safe from winter storm, driven pour and daggered wind.

Envelope in warm furs, both of us bare-skinned.

 

Kiss away bad spirits, stroke away Piskey sprite.

Whisper of love lingers, in timeless man-made night.

 

We came to bless our wedding, the start of married life.

Commune with the other world, far from common strife.

 

Tallow candle guttered and left we naked in the dark.

Gentle touch to rekindle, our lover’s sacred spark.

 

All the tempest winter could muster, stamped upon the land.

We did not notice, just one soul hand-in-hand.

 

Our fogou built by the Ancients, a refuge from the maw.

We inside our lover’s cave, set among the granite Tor.

 

March A.D. 1698. Your, She of We.

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