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)