I walked 14 miles that day, carrying a little suitcase in one hand, but my desire to put my feet on this ground drove mere flesh on.

Up on the Ridgeway
In pain all the way
feet on the 8,000 year path
Where traders tread
as glaciers retreated,
a braided roaring
chant of rivers growling
boiling from
the feet of Ice Giants,
grinding the surface of Wilts
to chalk
and priceless flint.

Gray weathers
dot the pastures, watched
by goodfolk dwelling
among the copper beach groves,
branches now whipping
in a staggering West Wind--
blowing
from Atlantis
from Numenor--
from Ogygia--
Magic, myth,
past, present,
combust in my brain,
rain soaked shivering
hackles rise,
looming barrow
and, in the emptied field
the startling shadow
of a recent
crop circle.