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I call to Ricagambeda, noble lady,
mighty one, granter of strength of every sort,
strength of body, strength of will, strength of spirit,
all are in your domain, O goddess great and wise.
Digger in the dirt, furrower of fields,
the seed we plant becomes our dream and our desire,
the salt we sweat only sweetens the gathered fruit,
for time and yearning bring all things into being.
Yours is the land of the many valleys,
the river-ways cutting through sod and stone,
yours the path we all must travel, the final fight.
O Ricagambeda, I offer you my praise.
O Satiada, protector of multitudes,
of those who held together in rich times and poor,
who shared one another’s greatest joys and sorrows,
silent one who keeps close her land and her people,
who keeps close her secrets, goddess, I call to you.
The shadowed folk of the south, hidden by the years,
their tales untold, their songs unsung, their names long lost,
they spoke your name in prayer, they carved it into stone,
a final remembrance, a token of a faith
held still in blood and bone, felt by each beating heart,
spoken with each breath, each footfall on the ancient ground.
Satiada, I praise you, I honor your might.
I call to fair Latis, lady of the waters,
the seething springs, the rivers rough and raging,
the well dug deep into the earth in which your might
resides. Goddess you are of our blood and of our bliss,
of the wine and the whiskey, the ale and the mead,
the flowing fire that lights our loins, the blessed brew
that grants voice and vision to the bard. O Latis,
ancient one, your people walked the wall of Hadrian
with spear in hand and prayer upon their lips;
in later days they trod the furrowed fields, sowing seed
and hoping for good harvest. Latis of the spur,
of sweetness and wrath, I praise your name, I honor you.
Bricta of the broiling baths, the healing spring,
companion of the lord of light, silvery bright,
dancing on the waters, on ripple and crest,
here and gone in an eyeblink’s time, I call to you.
Great-hearted Bricta, good and gracious goddess,
shining one, lady most noble, lady most high,
lady of magics, of words wrought well with precision
and care, laid into lead, pressed into the earth.
Watchful Bricta, safe-keeper, merciful goddess,
shield of the innocent, refuge of the weak,
friend of the forsaken, solace of the lost,
I offer you my praise and my reverence.
I call to Abnoba of the wilderness,
your bow at the ready, your well-honed shafts at hand;
keen of eye you are, goddess, and fleet of foot,
your nerve never falters, your aim never errs.
Abnoba who we see in the shift of shadows,
whose breath we feel on the back of the neck,
we hear you in the cry of the hawk, the bay of the wolf,
we know you in the tangled wood, the cold-water stream,
the sweet scent of fallen leaves in decay.
The madness of the hunt is yours, O goddess,
the pounding heart of predator and prey;
Abnoba of the shining eyes, I honor you.
I call to Senuna, so good and so fair,
lady of the chalky spring, your waters steady
and pure, lady of the thick-grown wood. Senuna,
whose ancient shrine once grew a prosperous town
to which the faithful traveled long ago. Senuna,
your name once lost to man, a thousand-year and more.
In times gone by you received such offerings–
shining coins of silver and gold, rings and chains
of delicate grace, jewels and adornments
that glitter and gleam–all given you by those
who knew your blessings. Senuna, goddess returned,
I praise you with words of reverence and awe.
Excellent Brigantia, goddess on high,
kind one, strong-minded one, whose lands spread far and wide,
whose temples are long fallen into the deep earth,
whose name yet endures, whose hand yet works upon the world.
Many were the tribes of old that placed their faith
in you, O goddess; your might a refuge to the weak,
your touch a salve to the ailing and afflicted,
your blessing sought by those in need, your favor
granted freely to good and honest folk.
Brigantia, mistress of the peak and the moor,
mistress of the river flow, the crest and the crown
are yours; I call to you, goddess, with words of praise.
I call to Belisama, lady of light,
lady of fire, of the swift-rushing river
and the depths of the tranquil lake. Belisama,
when the sun is high and the days are long,
when stone and sod are warm against our feet,
we feel your might. Belisama of the grove,
once well known in Britain’s green and flourishing hills
and in the ancient lands of Gaul, Belisama
of the temple and the wildwood, honored
when the sun is strong, recalled with love and longing
when the winter winds bluster and howl, O goddess,
Belisama, summer-bright, I offer you my praise.
I call to Sulis of the good land, of gentle hills
and apple trees, whose kindness is constant,
whose hand we see in budding branches and rich harvests.
Sulis of the fair green vale, Sulis of the springs,
long has your name been spoken by those in need,
long have men and women sought your blessings,
long have you granted the gift of health and wholeness
to those who entered your temple, to those who bathed
in your healing waters, to those who prayed for respite
or remedy. Gracious mother of Somerset,
mender of ills, righter of wrongs, foe of the thief
and the villain, Sulis, I offer words of praise.
Far-faring Epona whose goodness and grace
are well known, whose name was called out in prayer
across the broad lands of the old world, Epona
of Gaul and of Rome, Epona of the mare
and the foal, goddess enthroned, I pray to you.
Epona, goddess wreathed in roses, bearer
of fruit and golden grain, granter of blessings
needful and dear: by your might, O Epona,
wild horses grow gentle, barren fields become green,
famine and drought submit to your will. Epona,
goddess whose honor and renown yet grows,
I offer you my praise and my devotion.
Fieldstones 