There’s bird shit down the standing stones

That twitch beneath the equinox,

And lichen flaking on the scalps

Of early man’s first building blocks.

.

The swarms, that fester in the scabs

And lug flat blades of bracken, sing

While limestone ridges ring with chords,

Half-crusted with time’s blackening.

.

The farmers’ flocks will graze their heels,

Their grinding bones a monument

To giants borne by calloused hands

And housing vagrant youths misspent.

.

So, proud, I climbed that hill of man

And stood by stony shoulders,

But when the sun aligned the stars

I found them only boulders.