A rift in the bed-rock
Makes us wonder
Just what is destined to emerge…
A poisonous fume
Or the trailing plumes
Of a Sun-Bird?
“There was one thing.”
“Well, two things, really.”
“These days ‘really’ is not a precise term, but proceed anyway.”
“No, no of course not… it’s just that, it struck me that the stones were conceived as shadows.”
“Shadows of what?”
“The ancestral realm.”
“And the second thing?”
“We’re being haunted.”
“By a shape!”
“It’s a Cop.”
“It’s still a Cop.”
“Or a very big Long Barrow.”
“But it’s a hill.”
“It’s still a hill.”
“Or a very big Long Barrow.”
“They didn’t build Long Barrows that big.”
“It’s absurd. It’s preposterous. They simply couldn’t have.”
“They built Silbury.”
“Silbury’s not a Burial Mound.”
“No, but the ‘Archaeos’ used to think that it was.”
“The ‘Archaeos’ are always getting it wrong.”
“They think it’s a hill.”
“They thought all the ‘Motte and Bailys’ were mediaeval.”
“Precisley, it’s definitely a big Long Barrow.”
“It’s not definitely anything but what makes you so sure?”
“Most of the sites hold a lot of people and there are thousands of them. A lot of them would have taken huge numbers to construct and there are thousands of them and yet, the burials are relatively few. Even at the massive sites…”
“Where are all the bones?”
“I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking.”
“Especially on Ilkley.”
“We know Ilkley’s a Necropolis…
“…And yet, there are hardly any cairns.”
Beyond the forest’s leafy shade,
The hooded one, with giant’s pace
From pinnacle to pinnacle
Leap’t silently, in moonlit grace…
In eremitic solitude
In caverns deep to meditate…
Within, the riddle of the night,
A key that will elucidate…
Beyond the stones, to four once nine
To where the goddess meets her mate
And heavens dance at winters turn
Bends earthwards to illuminate.
“No one in their right mind believes that stones can walk.”
“Despite the fact that the Folk-Record is unequivocable on this point.”
“It is also unequivocable about stones dancing, and drinking from streams.”
“I may be able to clarify the streams. They may be underground.”
“They may even be telluric currents, but you promised.”
“That, unfortunately, is deductive reasoning for you. It was the only bit of wall we had not checked.”
“We had so checked it… last time.”
“Only from a distance and that does not count.”
As it turned out there proved to be another bit of wall we had not checked.
Also distant and too far away to consider once the snow started.
I mean, really started.
There were compensations though, like the trees and the wildlife.
“Are you sure it isn’t the Throne-Stone?”
“Not near enough to the wall and the gate.”
“But the wall is a mnenomic. Your mind could easily have contracted the distance.”
“Not the right size, or colour.”
“Like that’s not easily accounted for.”
“Maybe you’re right and I’ve discovered a new species of stone, which can walk!”
“But that would be a New-Old species of stone.”
“So perhaps it just went for a stroll, again.”
“What, in the snow?”
…That night the world took on strange colours and my dream-girl became a tree.
If I were a Druid I would say that I had fallen under the sway of a wood nymph, a Dryad…
She is certainly very beautiful and pulls me away from the busy road where traffic endlessly flashes through the ever screaming air…
She always wins.
I always turn from the road and allow her to take my hands in hers.
We roll down the embankment conjoined…
We roll together
for all eternity
but then collide with the bole of the tree
and she is gone.