Sands of Time

Somewhere in this field there is sacred ground.

Beneath the plough, the hooves,

the combine harvester,

the uncaring plodding feet,

there is a place where our ancestors

six thousand years ago

buried their dead

within a circle

sained by their priests

for all eternity.

There is no sign now of what went on.

Of the ceremonies or the prayers,

except

for a slight catch in the air,

a silence,

a space around which pipits circle.

High above, the jet plane does not know it is

dissecting sacred space.

Thousands of feet up, the prayers have dissipated

whisked onwards to the stars;

or whipped to nothing in the wind.

The gods have been down graded.

They have decamped to the edge of the field,

to a tiny copse which overhangs a stream.

Drowned by the gurgle of water

and the rustle of leaves

they are unheard by all

but those who look for them.

And listen.