A circle of stones
surviving behind a
guttery farmhouse,
the capstone phallic
in a thistly meadow:
Seskilgreen Passage Grave.
Cup, circle,
triangle beating
their secret dance
(eyes, breasts,
thighs of a still
fragrant goddess).
I came last in May
to find the mound
drowned in bluebells
with a fearless wren
hoarding speckled eggs
in a stony crevice
while cattle
swayed sleepily
under low branches
lashing the ropes
of their tails
across the centuries.
A Slow Dance (1975)