Apricot Press

A minor confession: I sometimes imagine
all fanciful – yes, I’m aware –
that somewhere along my long ancestral line there were
Celts living busily, building their lives, farming millet, and measuring time
by the changing of seasons, the solstices; trees and
the land, they held mysteries still; it looks nice
in my head though I know it is probably off.
I know everyone walked all across central Europe
conquering here, trading there,
marrying into new clans and new towns
so I can’t really know. I’m aware.
I just like to imagine it; and, realistically
there must have been people on twigs of my family tree
foraging, herding, and knapping sharp stone-tools
at some point in history, this much we know. And anyway, everyone
likes a good story. So that’s just me, having a go.

I decided to bring some of that back to life
in my very own garden – I’d build me a henge!
I’d build me a folly, for folly alone
with some pegs and a hammer and string
I random-deliberately chose a good point as the centre as step number one
marked out for step two the four cardinal points
and then eight times a year, groaning, rose with the sun.

All sites marked, I got busy, got stones and a spade
started digging, foundations to build
I put boot onto metal and pushed, heaved, and dug
Put my shovel to solid old soil with a will; it was warm
When a scrape screeched discordant along the long hilt.
Squatting down, moving dirt, then, my fingers revealed
what else but an arrow-tip, flint in my palm.

Photo credit: Kit Ko