I turned away from vain staring down the line for a train that would not come and found trees beyond the station. Viewed from Bracknell’s municipal greyness their greens were varied and splendid their depth intriguing a beckoning call to some other place. I probably saw wasteland “Soon to be redeveloped” but, for second or two, it was Faery. Then the train came.
Soft as a blown rose, a tiny killer seeps into your everything even white bone. Sharp receptors grip like crampons as it climbs down the chimney of your throat to the soft hinterland of your lungs ripe meadows about to be trashed. Once base camp is set up it storms your defences you die hard and slow fighting for every breath.
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We have captured the stones in their circles
first with maps and sketches
now with our many photographs.
They would otherwise move
dance in moonlight’s shadows,
shuffle away to the devils lair,
creep up on a King or a witch.
We have opened the barrow graves to sunlight
pinned them to history with interpretive notices
collected the many bones within.
Lurking on ridges, smothered with grass,
besieged by fields and fences,
children now play in dark chambers
where once ancestors dreamed.
Do the stones protest at their confinement?
Do barrow wights still lurk after dark?
Have we chased away the Gods-smith?
Do we care?