A Journey, and Such a Long Journey
“Stonehenge’s altar stone was carried all the way from north-east Scotland. But how?”
—The Guardian
Down at our local pub, a friendly Druid
invited me to join him for a beer.
He must have slipped in some exotic fluid—
I woke to find I’d signed as overseer.
We set off early, lacking any map.
(I would have much preferred a GPS.)
The signage on the way is utter crap.
At intersections, we must always guess.
Dragging that bloody stone is not a joke,
especially through woods and bogs and bends.
And somebody should tell the Beaker Folk
it’s possible that strangers come as friends.
County authorities must lay macadam
to fix the potholes on the Pennine Way.
They also should arrest each local madam,
sirens inclined to lead my lads astray.
No beauty parlors to adjust our woad!
No clinics where my boys can stop to heal
the hernias they’ve suffered from our load!
I think it’s time that we invent the wheel.
I give no stars to Services By Wicca:
the useless spells they cast are never free.
Each Druidmail insists we must be quicker:
our ETA—two thousand BCE.
Stumped
A morning job for us to do:
remove the remnants of a yew—
one root, one hour or maybe two.
The root we find has many sisters,
all certified as chop-resisters,
a clan hell-bent on raising blisters.
We’ll need to polish our technique:
the hack direct and hack oblique
aren’t exercises for the weak.
The Hades dig and Atlas heave—
we’ve tried and tried, and can’t believe
how little three days can achieve.
Frustrations mount. Our pains grow worse.
We coin new words with which to curse,
obscenities for each reverse.
Day five will end our agony.
One final cut. The stump rolls free.
New space … to plant … another tree …