Deep within the forest dim –
in a house that none might find,
dwelt the aged sorcerer,
stooped his body, dark his mind.
Druid of the woodland glades,
master of the wind and sun –
healing hand and wisdom’s voice
these mysteries were his alone.
Came the villagers to his hearth,
counsel gave them and herb lore,
ken of weather, rain and storm –
knew he all their kin of yore.
Years passed, forests became fields,
felled by industry’s dire hand;
villagers replaced by serfs,
age of sinners had arrived.
Within the deepest groves he hid,
nevermore the healing hand
sought the villagers, instead
drove him roughly from their lands.
Witch and Heretic they cried,
tales were woven, words of fear –
deeper hid the sorcerer,
the age of the machine was near.
Lights shone brightly in the town,
juggernauts of steam and power
scarred the sacred downs and groves,
the old world faded like a flower.
Years like autumn leaves declined,
empty was the rustic home –
bereft of magic, wisdom, wit,
departed had the Sorcerer.