Unfeeling stones that sat, grassbound
and sheep-licked, even in Alfred’s day;
touched by light, as they were once
when carted from the hills.
Human hands, still –
then and now through time –
shaping fortresses and fates;
passions turning walls to blood,
and nothing new.
© Matthew Rhodes 2011
How utterly gorgeous. Again, a wonderful poem read aloud. But it’s the transitions from unfeeling stone to walls of blood that works so well. And, sheep-licked!
Vivid images. Put me in mind of Stonehenge.
Thank you – I started thinking of the smaller stones of a fort on Hadrians’ Wall, but I think I did allow Stonehenge to enter the poem as well!