i wonder if stonehenge


    George Borrow grasping for a past temple


    or the hands who raised the monoliths of stone.


    I am looking for a way back, a way to dig


    deep into the earth and stumble on the Stonehenge of before.


    Who grappled with gravity to create a roofless


    sanctuary, a kind of crossroads?


    Unlike Borrow, I must take in these gray kings


    from a distance, roped off and monitored.


    The crows above flirt with the stone, lighting


    on the rocks with a practiced ease. Sheep nearby graze


    as they have since the rocks’ birth, remembering a time


    when they roamed freely within the stone boundary.


    At first I am underwhelmed, seeing Stonehenge through the blurred


    window panes of the tourist bus. Small baby teeth in a great maw


    of grass and sky. But shuffling closer, the stones become the mighty


    incisors I previously envisioned. Not skyscraper tall, but an ancient equivalent. Maybe


    it didn’t take as much back then to feel small,


    to evoke the sublime.


    Go back in time and see it.


    As the gray kings tower over me I long for the original,


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    the genesis. Was it a sacred space, a sacrificial altar


    or bridge of decision? Was it carved, intricate faces


    and creatures worn away by the rough hand of wind


    or time? Was it painted, brilliant shades of turquoise


    and emerald or subdued tones of pearl and coral?


    Countless miles to get the stones.


    Now my imagination is populated with mighty ships,


    rope thicker than my arms constraining the proud stone kings.


    They would have sat silently, regally, disdaining their capture.


    Upon reaching land their servants would drag them hundreds


    of miles to a wild green hill. And although the stone kings


    would frown, they would stand with their backs to each other in time.


    Walking on dead bodies.


    Barrow mounds surround us, housing glittering kings


    of old with rusting fragments of gold and sword. These weathered


    stone kings stand vigil over flesh and bone captors. Inspiring awe


    when earthly kings have sunk into eternal rest below the grinning


    stone faces. The fleshy kings completely invisible to me, only a story,


    a slight swelling in the ground.


    A door to the other side.


    The layering of boundaries, the threshold


    to something bigger than me slips under my skin.


    I want to break through the rope and time


    to a silent congregation of menhirs,


    holding private and significant counsel.


    Archons, gatekeepers to the ark of rock and hidden bone.


    Look at me.


    Pictures fill the air with digital electricity, and I feel


    the aftershock. The masses look through lens, an intentional


    barrier far thicker than rope. Stonehenge does not speak. No


    whisper of its ancestors. No special melody or whistle


    from the rocks when the wind blows. But others speak,


    whisper. The people are part and parcel of the stones, and they talk.


    One more, one more, one more.


    Maybe a reference to just one more photo of squirming children,


    or maybe through modern mouths an ancient sound


    of encouragement, Stonehenge pulled from another land


    and constructed. Irish stones, grouped together


    in rings and raised into otherworldly doorways,


    like mighty stone bards or prophets.


    I don’t know.


    Without the strict ropes and rules confining stones


    to a written history and commandment,


    these gray kings speak.