The Stones

Shadow-walkers of the equinox,
Charting the rise and fall of the seasons,
They are a law unto themselves.
Maintaining dark and tribal traditions.

Mistletoe and magic preserve their ways:
The full quarter of a lunar rising
Stirring old longings in their grey veins,
Holders of the blood-dried cup.

Imbued with a power long gone,
Defying the trivial elements
That try to wear them down:
Rain and wind are nothing to these giants.

Sombre memorials to a vanished people,
Lost in the shrouded genius that raised them.
Still their stone-children stand,
Defying explanation, until the end of time.