Mên-an-Tol

Here stands a monument to endurance.

Solidity within our transience.

Though wind screams in fury, it stands in glory.

 

Stone, carved from the earth, permanently still.

Resolute in its defiance, standing.

‘Rage, blow!’, its presence shouts, bold on the hill.

 

Subdued, I stare at the ancient headstones.

The essence of years’ swirls through my frailty.

Who will stare when time has eaten my bones?

 

Goings on twist and tumble, life shouts its noise;

Intrusive and obscene, sweet and tuneful.

Every day, scenes are acted on your stage.

 

With every solemn hand placed, picture

Taken, story told, you come back to life.

You bring the rush suddenly. To a halt.

 

Severed connection remade and switched on,

Madness broken, our spirits awoken.

You take us out of time, somewhere better.

 

Where is better? When flame and sulphur rise,

When we can’t tell the difference between

Madness and culture. Where will we retreat?

 

To fathers of fathers, far back in time?

Delve, dig. Find our roots, carved from the very earth.

Once found, plant them: stony strength straining but

 

Standing. Still, standing.

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