Walking at Avebury
Dark and dreary December afternoon,
Weak, slanting sunshine that begins to fail,
Walking around the circles at Avebury,
Amid sarsen standing stones in shadows pale.
Light snow covering the lonely landscape,
Earth is robed in its ghostly cover,
The jagged monuments standing starkly,
Embracing the silence, like a lover.
Most of the visitors have now departed,
The pub and the car parks all deserted,
Rushing home to New Year’s Eve festivities,
Whilst here is soon to calm reverted.
In the weakening light, my mind plays tricks,
And imagines ancient figures walking,
Carrying out some ritual practice,
Whispering, gesturing, and talking.
Slowly, the place returns to ancient times.
Peopled again, the circle starts to fill,
And my eyes are drawn to the deep South-West,
And the brooding bulk of Silbury Hill.
Silhouetted against the darkening sky,
Stands the giant earth-work, the great mystery,
A monument built by many thousand hands,
Speaking to me still from beyond pre-history.
And the avenue of stones, leading away,
Stretching off beyond my current sight,
Through the chalk-land, into the far distance,
Disappearing, almost, into moonlit night.
Perhaps towards Stonehenge ,
or the barrows,
Across the Downs , through
the deserted land,
With some deeper meaning or purpose,
That we still cannot understand.
Did these shadow people build these ancient structures,
And did they move the earth to make this massive ditch?
What is the purpose of these megaliths?
Is there a symbolic meaning rare and rich?
Are these stones placed exactly where they are,
In a circle of precise refinement,
Because of certain heavenly signs,
Which required a particular alignment?
I watch these unknown men of yesterday,
Creating such things with roughened hands,
Carving out this place of mysteries,
From the cold and unforgiving lands.
Their ceremonials mean naught to me;
As I watch the graceful gestures of their priest.
I hear the chanting, musical singing;
The fires burn bright, and they fall to feast.
Is this rite about the living, or the dead?
Are they looking back, or to their New Year?
This solstice-time pagan celebration
Must have a purpose which to them is clear.
Such great gathering of tribal men,
Of crops, of seasons, of death and of birth.
To propitiate their shadowy gods,
Or worship the Sun, the Moon or the Earth?
But I cannot ask – they are only ghosts;
Their figures disappear from present view.
My mind comes slowly back to current times,
And I view the archaeology anew.
By now, the place is dark and desolate.
I shiver against the penetrating cold.
I turn away to take my journey home,
And reflect on these great people of old.
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