They whisper secrets of past
those talking stones
whose words pass silently to winds
that carry them over the centuries.
Those giants bask in sunlight
sarcens and blue stones
capped with jackdaws
whose mimicking echoes
soar to sky limit.

While clouds feather the blue gently
wind brushes them away
their plumes drawn in soft nuance:
vapour down meets far down
sparse pines silhouette cumuli
and barrows hide treasures in mounds.


Hidden in history, reluctant
to give up their secrets
the bleeding wounds of past,
they hold up scars like tight fists
and shut those wide mouths
carved deep and cut sharp
no outgoing kiss of confidence
only zipped up seams of privacy
blocking our entrance.

Those great neolithic stones
given to Bronze Age tilt shine
in the midday sun, leaning
blistering their open faces
of brutal sandstone grit:
they are not formless but silent
lilting static, only pretending life.



The best of him: Himself.
His brain does not know himself
as well as he does. Contrarily
he may be wrong; his brain the wiser.
His smile, his loving pleasure
at seeing us surround his chair
confuses as he asks pathetically
"Why am I here?" Or worse

he no longer minds the here nor there.
Yet present passes well and warm
he is himself, our minds his memory
of all that once was valiant, grand
magnanimous and worldly wise.
Then I look deep into his fading eyes
and know that, as he once told me,
'You've had the best of me.'
I know: the best of Himself.

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