The Stones of Avebury (All that we can remember

so it begins again)
These massive immobile megaliths are stuck in mud, aloofly impervious to the floating breeze.
Stones, weather worn stones, high and broad, sit. They are noble solid refuges favoured by lichen.
Blessed in circular disposition with the blood and the sweat of ancestors all without age or name, the stones by size and by circle attract to themselves involuntary interpreters.
The great stones one by one call in to themselves the visiting poet, the enlightened woman or man.
Today’s people, acolytes in all but title, journey here, guided by heart-wonder, turn shining eyes on the softly present rocky surfaces.
Obedient to the allure of the Circle of Stones, the people who have eyes to see they stand close, they face the impermeable sacred verticals.
Today’s descendant ascendant people, new of flesh, bear the swarm mind imprint of the priests of old. This is why we are with the circles.  This what is embraced by ancient rock.
A hard touchable magic spell as simple as a smile breathed, releases bonds of solidity.
The long dead keepers of the astrogeometric arts pass to us their passion inside of the secret, solid and holy lightlessness.
(All that we can remember, we to whom these glorious revelations are granted, after we come away so very changed, is that we always forget,

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