Waun Mawn

These things can’t last, but they can
Last so long to get to that
Last day when they’ve left no trace.

The tribes dug holes for the stones
That stood for their long gone kin,
Then carved and wedged the stones in.

The stones they stood in a ring
With a gap to face the sun.
A ring is a way to mark time,

Shaped like a port and a gate
Through which to leave it. The dead
Are gone from us, the ring hints,

And fled from time, not just not,
But more here than us, more real.
We love the sign of the ring.

When the tribes moved, lives and lives
On from those lives who first built
The ring, who were lives and lives

On from those who first cleared out
The tribes who used to be here,
Who cleared the woods, sowed the seeds,

Penned the cows and goats and sheep,
They came back to get the stones
Once they’d dug new posts for them

In the new home, a new ring.
Lives and lives on, more huge stones
That dwarfed the first, as the size

Of the tribes now dwarfed the first
Tribes’ size, would be dragged by sledge
And raised, and fit with a sill.

Stones last so long. Lives and lives
On, the stone tribes fell to new tribes
Of the horse, the wheel, and bronze.

They’re gone as the tribes of woods
They first cleared for fields and farms
And rings of stones for their ghosts.

Lives on lives, tribes on tribes, ghosts
On ghosts. A few stones still stand.
These things can’t last, but they can.