Thirteen stones stand here:
blade tips carved by ice and air,
circumambulating five thousand years.
I stand here watching,
eyes cut upon the sharp edge of time, where
tempered pillars rise from magma, are tipped
by rough hands into the sun, and smash
to dust like exhausted stars.
Here stands an ancient
oval key, locked to the hillside.
Buried in the peat lies a forest,
rooted in rust black bogs, its charred scars
dissolved in soil, five metres dark.
They say a thousand years sleeps three feet deep.
Old blood drips from the peat cutter’s blade.
Five thousand turns around the sun,
the planet’s lungs thick with tar,
these stones still ring the haunted echoes
of men and women who knew this place,
who walked its twisting vessels
to the dark pulse underfoot.
I think of you, standing here,
five thousand shores of birth and death,
looking back along the knife-edge.
How unanswerable the path must fall
to enlightened eyes.
Thirteen stones standing, still:
forgotten in a world of rot and ruin,
or sacred as elders on burial grounds,
where old myths pass through fire and
ancient knowing kindles in the ashes.
© Simon Emile Tewfik Morgan 2018
from ‘A Turn of the Earth’
Image “Iùl 3 (Landmark/Guidance)” © Maya Caoihme Lwin Reid