Megalithic Poems

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Stonehenge, from "A Game of Henge" by Philip Goss

A game of Henge, my masters?
The pieces are set. We lost the box
with instructions years ago.
Do you see Hangman? Or
Clock Patience? Building bricks
the gods grew out of? Dominoes?
It's your move. You're in the ring
of the hills, of the stones, of the walls
of your skull. You want to go?
You want out? Good - that's
the game. Whichever way you turn
are doors. Choose. Step through, so...
And whichever world you stumble into
will be different from all the others, only
what they might have been,
you'll never know.

And another, an absolute stonker IMO –
?suggesting Avebury is a pig pen? ;)

from A Game of Henge

Those stony backs. A scrum around a whisper:
Hush. Hiss. Who?
Why won't they let you in? No, it's a secret secret
won't tell YOU . . .
A playground wide as Wessex. Wire barbs
the wind whines through.
You'd wait a hundred years and couldn't ask.
It's secret secret
won't tell YOU.
Don't dare. You dare yourself to dare
and then you do.
They turn and . . . What's the game? You are.
And it's Sticks And Stones
and you're on your own
and it's Piggy in the Middle
and the piggy is YOU.

The poet is Philip Gross. It's a great thing, i still have a few copies of the book – A Game of Stones – if anyone would like one, [email protected]