Visible from all directions on a grassy elevation in the eastern hollow of the spine of the land.
Through fields of feathered wheat, past startled rabbits and beady-eyed pheasants; five wise old men in a hunched meeting.
Closer; wind and rain shaped fists rising from the earth defiant.
He circled them, clockwise, then anti-clockwise.
He touched them, changed again into shape-shifting individuality; an angel with wings of tethered lichen; a stubborn child. He’d brought no offerings.
Back rested against ancient cup and ring, feet pointed towards buried human bones.
The constant chatter-song of a hovering skylark. A crow playfighting young rabbits.
He thought he heard footsteps and turned sharp, but no, all alone for miles around. Breeze in the long grass at the base of the stones. A timeslip flash from an ancient past.
Two yellowhammers swooped down onto a stone each, stayed awhile and then rose and dipped to a nearby grove of young trees. Clouds came together in heavenly manner.
He stood up and put his face to the sun, struggled to imagine ancestors erecting these stones three thousand years before him. His belly rumbled, but his mind was calm. He gave thanks and walked away, but had to keep stopping and looking back.
Polished fragments are slightly polished first pieces of writing written on site, that may be built upon, stretched and teased into threads for Richard’s upcoming novel, provisionally entitled The Touch of Love …
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