Old stones

OLD STONES

                        We park the car and walk

                        Across the narrow country lane.

                        Just a rusty sign: allée couverte à 100m

                        And there inside the grassy field

                        The dolmen.

                        The stones are patched with age,

                        Grey and orange but still in place

                        Where they have stood so many years

                        As the world has changed around them.

                        We duck beneath the roofing slab

                        And stand within the shaded heart

                        Speckled with light through the gaps

                        Between the sturdy ancient stones.

                        Wild plants grow here and there,

                        Lush green against the greying stone.

                        Silence and a sense of timelessness.

                       

                        We cross the field to the hedge

                        Along which lies the gallery grave,

                        A longer, lower version of its sister dolmen,

                        Too low to do more than peep inside.

                        It slopes down, darkening.

                        And I am glad we found them.

                        No signs to tell the tourist anything;

                        So much the better.

                        They are simply there, sufficient to themselves.

                        Survivors. A testimony.

                        Just outside Trégastel, Brittany, 13 April 2009