Deep within the earth beneath Glastonbury Tor, two sparks appear: One blood red, the other silvery-white, they emerge from sulphurous tunnels and, bringing the olfactory imprint of forge and earthen core, hover, dancing.
The sparks grow. Definition emerges. Embryonic wings creak; saurian heads, horned with gold, enlarge; thunderous, thumping tails crack and crunch upon loose rock; eyes of or reveal ancient wisdom.
Twin Dragons, they are – and, coiled within soils both mythical and real, they wait, an ouroboros of red and white, for the annual battle ‘twixt Winter King and his Summer rival, and the latter’s victory – and the return bout at Samhain in which Gwyn ap Nudd, antlers proud and fierce, bale hounds slavering and whining in his wake, reclaims his crown (and lady) from Summer’s waning King, Gwyther.
They are the basis of many a human story: The dragons of prophecy in the Arthurian canon; the protectors of the Tor; emblems of ritual; pub names and Mah Jongg tiles: They permeate our consciousness and dwarf our petty concerns with their majesty, beauty and power.
Conceived within Mother Earth’s mineral womb, fire and ice curled together, seasonal dots nurtured by elements – and birthed long before mankind’s brief span began – these beings of myth and legend have been given form in Avalon; soldered, stitched, painted into glowing life, they wait.
Restless, fully grown, their stirring becomes a rumble, a tinder flick of fire, a sharpened spear of ice. Beltane draws nigh. The inner Dragons’ material counterparts wait: For the life force to surge; for the beat of drum and tread of human feet fusing into their vast claws; for the colourful crowd of people; for the signal, from horn and hive, elementals and higher beings, to reprise the May; to celebrate the Beltane rite; to march once more upon the green hills and Spring-infused levels of Logres.
Come one, come all! The Dragons await! May 6th approaches…