Cerrig-Brudyn/The Astronomers Circle

A distant dampness wrings the air. A weight most profound presses chest as indrawn breath holds silent; in the stonehedge of overwhelming gloom. So, the mighty have fallen auguries of a mortal doom. Without missive, bluestone bones, stanchions silhouette onto a plane of pastel sky. Gargantuan, they rise, a tomb. So, the mighty have fallen auguries of a mortal doom. Brittle brown blood expunged by millennium three, the still, symbolic, oak forest rises. Frozen sarsens, five, forming an open grove. Megaliths beaconing a golden eastern dawn So, the multitude will rise within the circle without earthly substance, soul; through green grasslands loam ashen augury of a different tome.