Quiet.

The STANDING STONES

Who will go where the standing stones stand,
when the fog rolls in and covers the land,
when the moon is hidden in a cloudy sky,
and the night is as dark as a raven's eye,
and the wind is as cold as a winter's chill,
What's that? You say you'll dare, you will?

We're here. If you've courage in your mortal bones,
then go and walk through the standing stones;
yes, that way, go, though it's hard to see
the ancient path in this obscurity;
your torch is useless for a light,
with the fog and the darkness of the night;
you go alone, for you claim the nerve;
I'll stay right here, for I only serve.
Follow this footpath through the mist,
and keep to the path I must insist.

You step down the path and I'm lost to view,
as the fog and the mist are surrounding you;
several sounds - grinding - from all about,
startle you so that you almost shout,
but all that comes out is a muted croak,
as you wrap yourself in your winter cloak.
You feel things moving through the very ground,
huge things, horrid things sliding around,
which make your skin crawl with growing fear,
and you sense that something is drawing near;
something immense, for the earth so shakes
that a chill runs up your spine and makes
the hair on your head stand up in fright,
as the fog rolls past and hides from sight
that which you fear but cannot see;
perhaps in your nightmares previously.
Wasn't that standing stone over there?
But now it's so close, and that other pair
are much nearer too than they were before!
You remember tales of ancient lore,
as you fall back on some lower stones,
and the Old Ones come to crush your bones;
you scream in fear, you scream in pain,
but all your screaming is quite in vain,
for no one can hear you or see the blood
flow down the altar-stone in a flood;

Then all is quiet; you've paid the price,
for you were the Druid's sacrifice.
and I, their servant. go from here
homeward, until another year.

John Bliven Morin