Bridge End to Stonehenge and pillars in the field –
aligned with an implicit accuracy no-longer maligned
for ambiguous reasons to Solstices observed it seems
by toilets set out in a field of fat and happy cows.
We circled the stones ears glued to disembodied
voices chanting eerily from plastic larynxes, took
photographs easily of flawed, modern man posing
in a field of ancient stones understanding nothing.
Like the cows who chewed their cud we were freely
imbued with cachets of another economy, the one
where sex sells economic determinism discretely in
wonders of another estranged but surely ruined abbey.
Or is it the appeal of Bath’s cabalistic deconstruction
40 minutes down the road that ensures the stone’s
survival; while we, seduced by the ease of it, stand
bemused in long shadows of our Pagan beginnings.
©13 September 2007, I. D. Carswell