The rock of ancestors
A circle of stone souls
In conference
With men;
A circle of ancestors
Being called upon
Would speak.

The beginning
In the eye wind
Of religion.
The mediator
The shaman
The devil
Has been taken –
He talks to
The ghosts;
He is talking to
The spirits
In eternity;
He is the centre
The stars are its tent
The underworld
Is its voice.

The tribes of Britain
Are seated around
The house of the dead
At The centre of the earth
Waiting to know
Are they right?
Are they wrong?

They knew the old stories
Of the times before
The new circle;
They knew
The story
Of the journey
Of the ancestors
From far away
Who founded
The circle of holiness
In the new land.
They could speak to them
Through the shaman
Through the mediator
That danced in frenzy
Around the pinpoint centre
Of the worlds.

The stones began
to awaken
The drumbeat
The frenzied sound
Was in the stones
Was in the priest –
The oracle had come.

The fragments
Began to be revealed
Of the god
Who began all things
That now demanded
A sacrifice
Of thanks.

They were the men of old
Who had followed the setting sun
To the end of the earth;
They were from
The land of the gods
The gifts were collected
They returned to the feast
That the dead would rise.

The stones sleep,
The ancestors
Have no names,
The stars forget.

2 thoughts on “Stonehenge

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