words will only steal the moment.
Lean instead toward this stone,
this standing stone
marked by yellow lichen.
You may hear a mighty thrumming
4,000 years old, the earth tilts,
the elders sing the sun into rising.
All unfolds at the proper time,
even you here standing,
as silent as a stone.
Written in response to a visit to the Ring of Brodgar, on the West Mainland of Orkney, a Neolithic circle of stones, originally 60 stones, of which 27 remain on raised ground overlooking the Loch of Harry. Written for Carry on Tuesday's prompt #17 from Peter Auster's poem, “Farewell.”