Megaliths net the mind,
Reminders of a time that’s really slow,
A time when blood mixed in soil
Was the only way,
And the green sinews of a world
Of lost axed groves
Stretched time and time again
Pallisading Cedd’s bequest;
His name for this lumpy scattering,
Bubbling with water-buffed pebbles,
Half naked with moss.

From this geological pulpit,
The land sags away south to the beck,
Hot-spotted with microliths
Of hunter gatherers
Padding up the valley.

Cedd followed, dropping off
Sometime, somehow for some purpose;
A 7th century Northumbrian visionary,
A refugee from Essex
At the court of Rendlesham?
Or just your average Anglo Saxon,
Settling without a fuss of letters,
And proclaiming this stone! but no further?
A cry taken up by other homesteaders,
Secured by their own stone across the valley

Whatever the local enticement,
To dig in twixt worth and stead,
Personalised messages from Cedd,
Sidle from his stone
Silent as unicorns,
But powerful nonetheless,
Impatient to clatter into prophesy.

Clenched strata resolve the ordinary
Into gestures of beckoning
Towards what is here and beyond.
Both realms are at hand
To receive every light in the mind
Via a cracked ice-borne timepiece,
A portal in a grid of millennia,
Wanting a web of tales and tellers.