They called me home the stones this llamas, once the fields were ripe and humming fallow,
They called me home to the heart of this land, the stones to whisper stories of the ages.
Stories of the thousands of years they'd stood and witness as the world turned
And turned
Stories of the handfastings and solstice songs and mayday rutting and winter sunrises in now long forgotton snows.
Of mead and cake, of tithes and ties to elven fairy folk
They whisper of the physical ancient granite that was raised from the earth after millennia
Raised by those who had bairns to raise and dead to bury,
raised by those who dug by hand, who pulled on logs
Who praised something beyond themselves in this one short life.
By peoples who gave joyful thanks for sacred rivers merging
Building barrows and hills and great earthworks to mark the heart of the land
Before Jerusalem was builded here
They spake of fairy folk and dryads, of nymphs and of the soul of the land
before they carved it up for landed and unlanded gentry
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