Stonehenge

Saw it yesterday,
saw it dip over the horizon – the horizon, drawn down
like a curtain, like an easing open of each eye.
It smiled, all hide, in the seizing
evening of the sun – not so much
each stone in earth’s pull but
in kiss-meeting, each meeting
in a moulding to the other,
new-touched, ever new-touching,
like moulded, settled clay - encircled
in itself, to count the movement of the
lights of seeming, coming day
and night, a sighting and a mix
of sun and moon, of the mind’s workings
and the spirit’s sublime.

Simple in its way, its
circling, circled way –
an avenue of light where
the birds gather, black and silhouette against
the sky, that drops below our feet, withdrawn,
remote, awed, at bay - it makes
us higher than the stars at night
and moves the sun and earth
to shift and shift
their moment and their course, and
render it less seer of their older
way, and more of deeper thought
than cool fore-thought of every silence
in eclipse
and of each midsummer’s day.