Stonehenge
(After Arbar Low by Doris Corti)
Pictured, the Stones seem hugely redolent
Of some portentous, cosmic consciousness.
First met, their insignificance appals
A mind anticipating grandeur’s awe.
Grouped, age-runed, in the shallow open bowl
Of their plain-featured site, they reek of loss
And disillusionment; Time’s purpose past,
Although its future shaped their origins.
Only seen close, cold in a wet, wild night,
The fitful moon skulking from cloud to cloud –
A savage noumenon haunting a grove
Of ancient sacredness, or ward-wraith set
To fright unshrived intruders – do these Stones convey
That frisson which once flared sunrise Mid-Summer’s Day!.
