The Stones Of Carnac

The Stones of Carnac

The stones of Carnac
call you,
whisper your name in the damp mist of morning,
they sing of your secret passion.

You walked before the Druids, before the Picts, before them all.

Silent stones,
the pattern beyond grasp, deep within,
through the darkness to the beginning.

The first sacred sunrise, raw stone aligned,
marking the passing and returning.

Rings to chart the flow of tides, of sea and fertility,
the movements of gods and men.

Stones to capture the chaos, master order, drawing meaning from earth and air and fire and water.

Owning the elements, capturing their name, capturing their power.

Tethered by stone that reaches from beginning to end.

Now lost, empty, hollow of power, mute and meaningless.

Yet your Celtic heart yearns for the center, for the four monoliths against a broiling sky.

Red haired, white skinned,
eyes as green as spring.

The stones give order to your lust and the tides of your body,
you are the one mystery, from beginning to end, even the stones
of Carnac

could not capture your meaning.

Only erect stones in awe and homage.