Megalithic Poems

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I love Kipling! Simple and uncomplicated, but he knew his stuff. He wasn't keen on the Romans either.


from The River's Tale (The Thames)

"But I'd have you know that these waters of mine
Were once a branch of the River Rhine,
When hundreds of miles to the East I went
And England was joined to the Continent.

I remember the bat-wing lizard birds,
The Age of Ice and the mammoth herds,
And the giant tigers that stalked them down
Through Regent's Park into Camden Town.
And I remember like yesterday
The earliest Cockney who came my way,
When he pushed through the forest that lined the Strand,
With paint on his face and a club in his hand.
He was death to feather and fin and fur.
He trapped my beavers at Westminster.
He netted my salmon, he hunted my deer,
He killed my heron off Lambeth Pier.
He fought his neighbour with axes and swords,
Flint or bronze, at my upper fords,
While down at Greenwich, for slaves and tin,
The tall Phoenician ships stole in,
And North Sea war-boats, painted and gay,
Flashed like dragonflies, Erith way;
And Norseman and Negro and Gaul and Greek,
Drank with the Britons in Barking Creek,
And life was gay, and the world was new,
And I was a mile across at Kew!
But the Romans came with a heavy hand,
And bridged and roaded and ruled the land,
And the Romans left and the Danes blew in-
And that's where your history-books begin."

Wonderful! It reminds me of the statue of Boudicca and her daughters on Westminster Bridge - the plinth and its dedication to that great queen now obscured by kiss-me-quick merchants' stalls selling (not-so-cheap) T-shirts and postcards...

Also slightly reminiscent of Kipling's The River's Tale is the following - inspired I believe by the sarsens in the Grey Wethers' Valley just outside Avebury on Fyfield Down...

Valley of Dreams

Quietly now lies our Valley of Dreams
summer's dew so quickly turned to frost.
Sprinkled white on every sleeping stone and blade of grass.

So still
but for the silent fall of winter
from each dark tree and hawthorn hedge.

Was it really here
on some bright summer's day
that you and I gave this place a thousand names?
And walked
And laughed and held each other a little while?

Sleep on secret stones.
Dream your dreams of burning suns
summer blown trees and parakeets.

Dream then
of that silent creeping darkness.
Those unending winters of screeching ice
pushing inch by inch
your frozen bodies
across frozen hills.

To this warm
secret little Valley of Dreams.

Dream of a time long gone
when they came to haul you back again
inch by inch
to some proud new place in the sun.

Was it really here
that you and I walked
and laughed
and gave this place a thousand names?
Where I held you a little while
and wanted to say how much I loved you?

Such a tiny sentiment.
Such a silent drop of time
in this Valley of Such Antiquity
in this Valley of Frozen Dreams.

Anon