Hanging stones commingle with the sun
faithful, even though defiled;
teach us to be mindful of dying and birth.
The sons and daughters of the neoteric
solstice chant their private incantations,
morning, noon and night they observe.
Ancients attuned to the turning skies
laugh, ever so slowly at first.
It’s a long, long way from the cords of time,
to synthesize with our beating drums and pipes.
© Joy Marsh
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