On past Stonehenge, the tracks not going that way,
through Plymouth and into Wales—no plan or map
toward what one day could hold:
Cardiff Castle and the River Taff,
a pub, a pint, and shepherd’s pie,
and then to find the ring of druid stones.
Dating from recent years, I had learned—
but enough to stop me that afternoon
for a good half hour,
and good it was to stand there,
to take some slides, then pack the Canon
back into its bag and stare with believing eye
till I was moved to walk sunwise
three times round the power,
to tiptoe toward the Logan Stone—
stand there centered amid the twelve
and raise my arms like a gnomon
shining in the sun, to look right
toward the portal stone and wish
I had been here for Midsummer Sunrise
or maybe at midnight drawing down the moon.
From stone to feet to head to fingertips,
the god within me wakened and this poem began to shape.
Small matter, really, when the stones arrived—
they are as old as they ever were,
and of a strength to hold within their gritty hearts
all possible chants and prayers.