Drawn lines amongst the willows dripping,
Shadows of the morning,
Sight set upon the evening star,
He gazes at the solstice moon,
Plots placements of the plinths and altars,
Holds the hearts of sarsens.

Tomorrow all the villagers will come
Expecting messages and blessings.
Tonight he only dances.
Robed arms upraised
Reflect the branches overhead
Now shattered by the starlight,
Recessional of priesthood.

Across the yawning sway of centuries
He smiles.

He knows the fervid moss
A dream much like his own and all those after,
How the generations falling down
Will wonder, touch the giant stones

And breathe