One of the first places I went walking. To Stonehenge when it was still open to all and free to wander around. Not like now where it is fenced off and kept isolated.
Was a whispering field, always calling.
One dusty day I listened,
I walked out of the gate,
I walked as far as the horizon,
into the sound of the plain. The birds,
the thump of artillery in the distance,
the windy cornfields, rasping to the touch,
taller than I was. I walked until I found Stonehenge
and among the massive stones I strolled,
lolled, touched, held onto their coldness.
I wondered at those who put them there,
and perhaps like them,
I stood on the altar stone,
looking out across the plain,
from the centre of the world.