(In reverence to Carwynnen Quoit)

You are sly, dear Quoit,
Hiding as a dishevelled heap.
Nothing to look at are you,
Discarded and gone un-noticed to those who seek majestic, neolithic memoirs.
And as I walk across the fertile land that is your home,
The thistles, vetch, hogweed and sorrel seem far more alive than you.

My heart is sunken,
Waiting to embrace your dappled coat of lichens that offer varied shades of colour to your otherwise, grey surface.
Amidst nettles and long grass I reach your chaotic presence,
Order and form eluding you now.
Though as I climb your sturdy rocks,
And find a place to rest my back,
Your stories start to un-ravel and your secret is told.
You, dear ancient stone, are zinging with life,
Igniting the ancient stones, bones, of my body.
You speak of celebrations, Of parties and monumental glory.
Your alive-ness is unmistakeable,
Flowing beneath your unassuming surface.
I am excited by your stories,
Of promises that you’ll rise again,
And as I watch the sunlight play on the fields of grass beside you,
We secretly smile together,
Energised by your hush-hush disguise.
And finally dear friend (for that is how I now feel towards you),
I realise that as the seasons change,
So you too have needed to rest.
Knowing that you’ll return to your former glory,
To be celebrated once again.

By Rachel Lambert, Winter 2009.