FOOTSTEPS IN THE SNOW 
3rd December 2012.

Smooth sheet
stretched between the posts
a silken fabric ready to be disturbed
by nature's bustle
lying silent, white, asleep
so still,
so unperturbed,
existing in its virgin quiet
when no winds blow.

Below the crystals beautiful,
the grass succumbs,
still green,
unseen to grow
the sky that changes
from the indigo of night
is slashed with light
as dawn begins to show
across the plains of Salisbury.

Where long ago
the small slight build of man
raised stones
transported from afar
to such a height.

So baffling the generations past
whose theories cast a spell
but who could tell.
Until there came the modern man
all speculation to quell.

There in a ring they stand
like Lords
around the great debate of life,
that state of being
all things represent
and just like us
they'll be there in the fall
no final judgement made at all.

Our footprints make a pilgrimage
described, our mark,
towards a greater power,
and yet its us, so far
that baffles so our minds.

How human beings came about
following the dinosaurs,
all kinds of life,
expressions of the universe,
we must be special
who so can speculate
and understand so much.

The snow represents the sheet of time on which man expresses himself.
The Lords, raised boulders, in great debate about the most puzzling aspect of existence.
The awaiting of the storms of change, now in the still.
The circle of all things, taking place, round like all planets formed by the birth and rebirth of all that exists.
The meditational thoughts inspired by those silent vigils in the midst of nature.
The absurd ceremonies of transcendental mythologies and the imagined presence of gods.
The greatest puzzle is how man himself became so full of understanding, not enough, but just enough to keep him thinking, imagining possibilities, creative.

And as we stand beside this enormous prehistoric monument, built and rebuilt during the course of 5000 years, we look and wonder at Stone Henge, there on The Salisbury Plain, its rings of stones, its position on the top of the hill, its wide sweep of sky, the sun penetrating its womb at certain times in the calendar of the seasons, the grandeur of such powerful incentives of the imagination.

What a work of art as art it is, that which can move us,
awaken us, stir our minds to contemplate to try to understand.

No living thing should disappear, only mutate, as all makes up the whole.
We may all be wiped out, but who will replace us, we do not know.

William Blake said, "The imagination is not a state: it is the human existence itself."