Gladulus is sad.
He stands, a menhir, misunderstood,
lichen covering him like a hood.
He mourns in dolerite. His name’s
ironic. When he came,
was planted, a seed at the mercy of time,
he wanted to flower, knew that he could.
Now the surroundings have forgotten the code
to read his story. He is a lode-
stone. He knows his astronomy,
how light slants from a leaden sky
mined by the downpours. Tourists pass by
assuming that he and his circle sleep.
He suffers indignities from sheep
but throbs in the knowledge that sacred shape
has power for ever, whatever’s said
from blaspheming tractors. The mad
still hear you. Gladulus, be glad.