The lightness of stones

Who doesn’t feel a certain connection with the stones of Stonehenge?  Is it true that Merlin himself bore them there from Ireland in the sunny past, when every day was Summer?  Or are they the relics of giants who themselves marched from olden Wales ; perhaps to form a secret circle or committee that would decide the destiny of Britain?

At any rate, they are no ordinary rocks ; no common Saxon stanes ; no wild henges.  For they are ancient, they are British and they are there for a reason.

Archaeologists may concoct their wild theories to the contentment of their barren hearts, but those with souls know that Stonehenge is not merely old ; it is timeless.  For there is a touch of the eternal about it.  When all the world has perished and all the seas gang dry, those stones will still be there to rage about it.

Eternal the Henge might be, but it is yet a relic ; for its power over men has diminished.  No longer does it rule their souls but it does warm them, for it is a reminder, a jogger of memories.  It is a reproach, if you like, for our once losing our way on the chalky Downs ; for mistaking one sign for another.

The second thing to strike me about those stanes (after their size and weight) is that somebody must have planned the construction.  If not Merlin then man.  And what form did that plan take?  Did the builders simply go out and stake the ground, knowing that it might take centuries to complete their task?  Or did they make a drawing of what they wanted?  Did they draft it on boards of black Oak using a piece of Wiltshire chalk?

What name did they give to their cathedral of the Sun?  Indeed, what was the sound of their tongue?  And, when it was built, who was qualified to enter its various parts?  What were those qualifications?  Who conducted the examinations?

It would seem that people came from all over Europe to partake of the magic embodied here.  Some are buried here.

And now, folk come from all over the world.  But they come only to stand and stare.

Stonehenge

The lightness of stones

The stones that called the sleeping sun
From out of weepy winter skies
Themselves now slumber on the Down
Forlorn and lost.

Who now remembers when they lived,
All charged with life that was their own
That gave them power over men
O’er whom they ruled?

Their voices, heard no more, they mute
The long lost glory of their day ;
Their eyes now blind and staring blank
At skies they fear.

Rough-hewn they were from Mother Earth
By hands that knew not what they did,
By minds that thought they mastered all
They touched.  Not so.

‘Twas Fate ordained that they be born
From out of distant granite grey,
And be conveyed to Wiltshire clay.
Better for to reign.

And Man was but their instrument ;
Though, foolish, thought he otherwise.
And soon they had him overawed,
Enthralled and slaved.

So thus the age rolled slowly by,
While stone gave way to polished bronze,
And souls grew brighter and declined
To be so used.

Now other ages came to pass,
The Stones were left forgotten now
By all except a stalwart few.
Most force was spent.

By ones and twos they fell unheard ;
Unmourned and unlamented they.
The Sun, he came and went at will,
As ever free.

And Man enjoyed his liberty
From those old tyrants’ baneful thrall ;
They withered in the wild East winds
And ice and snow.

For all the ages their doom was fixed,
By powers greater than any known
To man or beast in nameless days.
The Titans died.

How else it could be none can tell,
For gracious answer there is none.
The World was come into her own ;
The grand design.

An Eastern Light appeared, to stun
The mind of Man who had forgot
The early lessons of his youth.
Rebellion faltered.

Jamie MacNab
2010