Barbrook I

A freezing cold place at the Winter Solstice, the sun standing still almost defeated by the bright, shiny, slate-grey clouds and flurries of snow.
Trying to light candles in the biting wind, the children stamping their feet to feel them, and the offering of wine left un-corked and frozen.
On the moorsides hereabouts our ancestors lived and toiled, remains of their field systems still evident. It is hoped that the climes were more clement then.
I notice a scar across the middle of the circle; a caesarian cut to birth the Earth Mother’s mystery into the hands of the archaeologists. To learn more they should be standing as we are, reverently, shivering, at the turn of the sun and welcoming the youthful Mabon back into the world.