The Stones

There was a time
when you could walk among the stones
unfettered. You could
touch them, feel their cold hardness,
or the sun warming them between
the April rains.

You could dance in the midst of them
and even if strangers believed
you daft,
they somehow understood,
somehow knew
there was magic there,
and you were feeling it
as you spun like a child,
arms outstretched.

But now the stones are fenced,
and you can walk the perfect path,
held at a safe distance,
like a fearful lover,
able to see the stones,
gray, dark
and more dead than you remember,
suddenly prisoners,
kept at bay,
keeping you safe,
sadly safe,
from the magic.

About this poem

I took this picture on my second trip to Stonehenge. This is how I remember it: open and wild on the plain, magical in any weather. I did indeed stand in the center of the stones that day and spun slowly, my head up, the stones swirling like a thing alive.

Today the stones are protected, (and sadly, they likely need to be.) We are kept at a distance. We cannot touch them. And just like a lover or a friend, or God, kept at a distance….. there is still beauty, but something is lost.

Tom