by poetrydiary

Did they wonder, like me, I thought,
at the chiselled avenues of light between the trees
converging on their fields,
and plant these stones in awe
as neolithic poetry?

Or are these rows a show of power
to catch and hold the sun;
weaving patterns from her rays
as only master craftsmen can?

Or was it fear?
Unyielding ancestors, screaming in their heads;
guilty memories made granite flesh,
and forced at last to rest.

Today I touch the stones, warm in the sun,
and shiver.
Drawing my words and thoughts they reach through time,
silent as a neolithic clock,
and almost art, yet unstopped.


I have spent the last fortnight among the menhirs and dolmens of the 6000 year old landscape around Carnac in Brittany.