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,
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.
A beautiful piece and a fascinating journey you have been on. What stories those stones could tell! Thanks for sharing a part of your experience.
Being among these stones certainly inspired a beautiful poem. It must be quite something to stand there and know that so many earlier people passed them by as well & to wonder what they were thinking as they touched the stones you walked among! Glad to see you in Poetry Pantry.