Winter Solstice at Stonehenge
Bejeweled in hoar, dried stalks of yarrow stand forlorn, like plainsmen from a far flung zone whose duty is to guard the circle stones as pilgrim troupes arrive from distant lands.
One band of faithful, several hundred strong, have made their camp, a village of a sort, beyond the bounds. Their children join in sports while men-folk meet, debating rights and wrongs.
When daylight pales the eastern starless skies, a mellow chant implores indulgent gods and every living saint to turn this sod back into fertile ground lest all must die.
The daystar casts its rays across the plains; devotees note their quest is not in vain.
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