Sarum

Father and son wear iron rings as they dig.
Hard muscle, bare gums, a father and son
down into the earth, where, after three thousands
of years have passed by, three thousands
of men have fallen under the turn, three thousands
of stones have been stolen down to the valley,
there is only a line of mounds blown by the wind.

Are you smiling, tussock by tussock,
in your curving lines?

What lessons have you been taught by time
where it seems that the earth has been cold
to you, always blowing, where men, even
as father and son, have cut and scraped,
banged out metal, carried stone and left
to settle below after sitting cold in greed
under the wind, shoulders rattling,
locking away their wives, holding your water?

What the men of war have stacked
you have allowed to crown you.
Father and son father and son have passed,
wars have blasted, all thoughts have centered
on you and looked away.
Somehow, after all this groaning,
the winds have passed and left
your grass to quiver and then finally
come to rest.