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Avebury Bright

The soft chalk paths have become heavy beneath my sturdy boots

Winter has enclosed the month and the ribbon roads are now much quieter

Nobody has disturbed the stones today as the hour is low and very young

Yet the sun is high in the blue sky and everything is illuminated

In the distance I can hear the Alpine Archer cursing his wounded knee

He is far from home but will not return and his ancient bones will soon be displayed in a great town with his arrow heads

The grassland have long since replaced the dense woodlands but the area is still damp

And the keen winds do not linger for long as they pass between the hills

I am standing on the high bank above a shadowed ditch

From my vantage I can see the remaining stones proud around me

These stones that were once feared and hated by the very village that lies within the circle have now returned and will not be attacked or buried as before

I tighten my coat as the air is cool and think of the dull days and the deep mists that linger during the daylight hours hiding the hills and subduing the birds

The year is in decline and the silence of its departure often brings certain sadness to me

A King once visited the stones although the month of his visit is not recorded

He was on his way to Bath but paused in interest with a friend

I can almost see him now acting as if a common man alone within with the steep stone circle

He is looking in my direction and for a moment we are crossing centuries

He waves and I return the favour I then close my eyes and the moment is lost

It was a fault of the time light but I am aware of my rare privilege

I look into the ditch below and see a small woman gathering wood for her evening fire

The fierce sharp light will not linger it will be dark in a few hours and she will need warmth

As I walk towards the low lane I pass a decorated tree with brightly coloured ribbons and children’s toys giving colour to its low branches

A seasons gift precious in its display

I am now on a deeply shadowed slope hidden between the winter trees which is seen by many as an entrance to the underworld

In both my hands I am holding brittle glass globes which have captured without question the hypnotic light of my day

This light will never fade and will guide me on my long journey