Stone Maidens (Poetry)

Beside a B-road somewhere in the West,
we pulled in, stopped by a field
as small as a paddock, fenced
from the too-close buildings, where
stones stood in a rough circle
but seemed misplaced,
uncomfortably confined,
their weathered one-tone grey
minimalist, aping modern art
in random figures, awkward, oddly posed,
one half-toppled as if barely able
to resist earth’s damp seductive bed.

A much too public site —
this peepshow near the open road,
denied the brooding isolation
of a wind-chilled moor
or mountainside location,
these granite maidens waited like refugees
abandoned in a makeshift camp —
mere curiosities, their significance, perhaps, in doubt.

No ceremony now, no tribute made —
old sacrifices left no scar on faceless rock,
and what was known is known no more,
the chant unsung for centuries,
dead secrets rest untellable
as ancient silence keeps within its ring —
and even the most reverent touching brings
no sudden shock, no blinding buzz
of psychic understanding —
as though the power’s drained away,
sucked back beneath the soil.

Romance insists there must be more
than meets the eye — some clue
to purpose or design, perhaps a key
so subtle science overlooked
its simple lore. Pagan legends say
the stone ones move at will,
take a few steps every time
non-believers look the other way.

We kept an open mind as drizzle fell.