Standing Stoned

Naom-Ghrian has passed through
the Spring door,
what remains of it,
five thousand and ninety-three times
as I linger here
tied to my belief in stone.

Much of that time was quiet
and in peace
with none coming to the forgotten
Hanging Clach
but lately
they come to the remains
strangely garbed
and with stranger ideas.

Many defile the Spring rite.

I absorb moments of their odd lives
and am shocked that they think
we were druidic
or archers
and other things
from places that didn’t exist
when I breathed–
but I keep my secrets to myself
and watch the years
waiting for the rock
to
finally wear down
and release me.

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