It felt like the earth wanted this place erased, edged closer to the cliffs, as though pushed by the rolling hills that surrounded it. An opening in the rock’s cavity left the mound bare, vulnerable to the eyes of strange figures, clutching at the buried stones as they gaze at the burial carvings whose swirls change shape in the light, shifting from midnight stars to spiralling seas— out of control mayhem etched into the very rock imitating that open rawness of pagans who smashed rocks together for sparks that seeded embers as though sowing seeds, for some sign of life in their crypt. Now, the echoes of their whispers are on the coastal wind that is delivered to our ears—a message of our fallen past. A stone-faced reminder that we too will die, be buried, and shift away.
Inspired by a recent visit to the Barclodiad y Gawres burial mound, this poem is just a simple number that I wrote when I had a moment to remember.
What do you think? Let me know in the comments below, or by liking this poem. Don’t be afraid of sharing your opinions!
© Thomas Gallimore Barker, 2021