Stonehenge

Stonehenge

A bright, sunny day in January -
Uncommonly nice for Britain,
As though the day was meant just for us,
Windows absorbing and transmitting the welcomed rays,
The bus leapt over the Salisbury Plain,
Warmth laughed at our woolen coats.
Even the stray primrose smiled.

Why such a tatty, little parking lot?
A lonely cloud dulled the sun for a moment,
And it lingered until we had arrived at the ticket booth,
Purchased our entrance, and avoided the souvenirs.
Through the tunnel under the little road we went.
Our emergence into the light of day
Bid farewell to that cloud.

The central orb reigned again,
But there was no solace in the light.
Wind was there, and the great abundance of it slapped us.
As we walked slightly upward, the gusts tried to push us back
Into that subway from which we had proudly emerged.
Undaunted, we pressed on, as if
The monument was calling.

Silent they were, these monoliths.
Yet they beckoned, as if to command.
Were the Sarum priests so drawn? The necromancers?
Merlin, Uther, Arthur? The knights from the Wincester's heights?
It seemed as if the hooves of ancient steeds
Still rumbled the gentle, rolling earth,
Slowing yet a little in passing.

Then, of all things, a fence.
What better to stop one's imagination?
Do the immutable boulders now need protection?
Have their visitors become so fey, so careless, so gauche,
As not to feel a visceral heave when hit
By such powerful, unutterable quiet?
Have we all become so spoiled?

We walked to the right.
If only we could have touched the stone,
Gone beyond the surface of that latticed circle,
Conjured whatever rites took place at a deity's inspiration.
Perhaps our personal deities would awake.
"Dearest," she said, grasping my arm.
"Might we go now? I'm freezing."