Giles Watson's poetry and prose
Straight Path to Wayland's Smithy
The Ridgeway teems with walkers on warm days in summer, but in autumn, its chalky surface becomes a quagmire, and farm vehicles leave ruts which petrify the following summer. Throughout the winter, it is possible to have the Ridgeway to yourself, with no company but a hound dashing through the leaf litter, and a pair of ravens who haunt the downs to the east. The low afternoon sun lights the way to Wayland's Smithy. On the colder days, when the wind whistles down the Ridgeway and the last of the beech leaves settle in the sludge, the chambered tomb is deserted - except for the great hulk of spirit who sits outside its megalithic entrance, like the Green Knight, waiting outside his green chapel with his whetted axe.
Stand still and wait. Perhaps he may invite you to stoop inside.
Straight Path to Wayland's Smithy
The Ridgeway teems with walkers on warm days in summer, but in autumn, its chalky surface becomes a quagmire, and farm vehicles leave ruts which petrify the following summer. Throughout the winter, it is possible to have the Ridgeway to yourself, with no company but a hound dashing through the leaf litter, and a pair of ravens who haunt the downs to the east. The low afternoon sun lights the way to Wayland's Smithy. On the colder days, when the wind whistles down the Ridgeway and the last of the beech leaves settle in the sludge, the chambered tomb is deserted - except for the great hulk of spirit who sits outside its megalithic entrance, like the Green Knight, waiting outside his green chapel with his whetted axe.
Stand still and wait. Perhaps he may invite you to stoop inside.