In stone, we dance across the land;
A pavane of five thousand years.
Come sister, take the tanist's hand
And drain this cup of maiden's tears.
We pause beneath the dolmen arch
To untangle feet from skeins of ley.
Throw off the yoke of spears and march
Across white stones that mark the day.
In and out the sarsen circle,
Where Redegonde spreads her apron,
We decorate the stones with myrtle
And fabled alectorian.
The music of the Stwun will persist
Across the hoarstone boundaries,
While henge and cromlech still exist
To pose us weighty quandaries.
