Stonehenge

Oh, how I yearn to be alone.
Holding onto the open chalk, standing firm against the bite of wind, rain and Sun,
Showing impassive toleration to time.
At peace, while waiting for momentary pilgrims

If it were only traffic…
Roaring, throbbing carriers of men and matter, eating miles, eating the plain
In gouged arteries of concrete and fume.
Anonymous vibration. A drone of short-lived unimportance.

I could ignore interminable tourists
Pacing around my roped cage, shouting in. Not knowing why, they take and leave;
Satisfied with tat and ice cream,
And a thousand photographs of assumed imperturbability

Druids think they own me, built me, know me,
Offer reverence to that which happens far from me, in me, sometimes with me.
Not like the old ones, but alike a little.
Enough that I understand the intention without expectation.

But a million deaths could not repay each Solstice.
That I must accept miserable offerings of ring-pull, maddened drumming and urine
and the fervent assumption of worship given unlikely worth?
Oh, how I yearn to be alone!

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