Trevethy Quoit. Image credit Snap

Standing stones

BLOWS the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,
Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,
Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,
My heart remembers how!

Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places.
Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,
Hills of sheep, and the homes of silent, vanquished races,
And winds austere and pure:

Be it granted to me to behold you again in dying,
Hills of home! And to hear again the call;
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,
And hear no more at all.

Vailima

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

Silbury. Image credit anonymous

Silbury Hill

I think Gaia was a virgin
when the men came
took their dreams out
and buried them deep inside her

Then they wandered the fields bewildered
carved circles on rocks
and built stone chambers
trying to decipher

What is this great mound?
Surely it holds such plunder?

Oh you silly men
with your measuring strings
sandals tattered and torn

Everyone knows
this mound
is just a belly full of gods
waiting to be born

Persephone Vandegrift

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