Tin soldiers crinkle and rust, delicate birds
splinter to bone and dust. Stones endure.
Some make stone soup to feed multitudes,
others roll stones away from darkest hours.
Visiting the stone circle in Avebury, fat sheep
stand firm, blunt wind ruffles tallow hide.
Freezing, even in bright sun, I lounge against
the largest boulder. Black lichen, like lace,
marks the surface, an encrusted silhouette.
I warm my hands, think about artistry,
marvel at monoliths heaved upright, too heavy
to be moved, a holy temple of unhewn stone.
