Grey Wethers Stone Circle

We sought Grey Wethers Stone Circle
Stumbling across the dry yellow bents
Of autumn
Along ancient trackways
Meandering all over the place
Linking one valley and another
One group of trees and new plantings.

At last, we reached open moorland
Bare, windswept, no landmarks,
No tors, no churches, no sun
To give us bearings.
A compass point showed due west
And we walked towards where the sun
Should set in the evening hills.

Climbing upwards we reached a ridge -
Still few features, still no sense
Of purpose.
We stumbled on, over rough tussocks
Which hampered progress
And long, tangled grasses
Which tripped clumsy steps.

Downward through marshes
Which shivered under our feet -
The water oozed and gurgled
The land unstable.
We leapt across, feet wet, legs aching,
Lungs bursting, and above us
On the hillside, there were grey stones,
Still, dark, stone sheep, grey wethers,
Fixed forever, granite beasts
At home in the landscape.

Why had we made the journey?
To take photographs?
To sense the indefinable past?
Who knows?
But four New Age Travellers -
Bright clothes, gold earrings, eager smiles,
Passed us
On their pilgrimage.

Anne Trevenen Jenkin