after the yews

 
there is a path
a zig zag and
slither of damp chalk
it follows unknown
animal tracks
along the hill
traverse then climb
panting
rest before
a young forest of yews

the mother-trees
spread their arms wide
shower their seeds
on the fertile earth
soon their children
teem down the hillside
packed as tightly
as an advancing host

the dark beneath
is impenetrable
to sunblind eyes
what lurks
what lives
what hides and seeks
within the scent
of growth
of earth
of lives spent?

a traverse passes
the young yews
and the last quarter mile
follows the contour
past a few forgotten sloes
to the top

ancient barrows
edge the ridge
on the holy mounds
kids run
boys bike
couples lounge on their sides
as if in a public park

tousled figures toil
with deer antler picks
move soil
with deer scapulas
haul stones
with ropes and bare hands
to make the stalls
and bury their dead
         

now no holy rite
no respect
for the long-gone
for the work entailed
for time past
in which was seeded
time present

shadows cross the ridge
unseen
a wind chills the loungers
a stone trips the bikers
and kids bloody their knees
in sudden stumbles
far off
the sea glints coldly
in the sunlight
the moon shadow appears
ghost-like
in the alchemical sky