A Disc Barrow on the Dorset Downs
Only the grass, the dry and hair-like grass
Gives voice to this old barrow on the downs
And bending low in cool persistent wind
Some creature's hairy back it seems to be.
The ground is animated. All around
Awareness breathes of those that once were here,
And standing on the barrow's central mound
My eyes explore its form encircling me.
Then 'midst the murmering grass I tune myself
To ancient time when sacred was the spot
And air was charged with voices of the dead
To mark a ritual lost in obscurity.
Only the grass with wind that brushes through
Gives voice to this old barrow barely seen,
And gives it soul; Invokes a sense of past
And inmost thoughs of deep serenity.
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