It was the standing stones that drew me to Avebury, England, the tiniest of villages. This is the center of a circle of standing stones ala Stonehenge, whose residents live daily with the magic of prehistoric mystery. But visitors are not blocked off by a fence as at Stonehenge. During my last visit there I stayed overnight at the Red Lion Inn which is haunted by Florrie and a few other ghosts.
Excitement rumbled through me as I checked into the Inn, securing my room reservation. I could barely wait to go across the road, to feel the stones with my hands. I ignored the sheep droppings as much as possible in this meadow they called home.
The stones are massive. I backed up against one, snuggled in tightly so the magic of this rough stone would enter my body, closing my eyes to feel the full sensation.
The mist hovers
between mammoth boulders of Avebury
like time between my past loves
now turned to stone.
The sheep graze
around me as freely as the thoughts
circling around in my head,
but with more peace.
I travel this magical area
of England, my last beloved, missed,
seeking solace of him,
the finest of them all.
The mist remains
softening the earth, cushioning the path,
like vague memories.
The mystic Merlin
comes toward me out of the distance
I raise my arms
in answer, relieved, ready to follow,
to unite again
on the other side.
Then he quietly
begins to fade
the echo reaches my ears.
Not yet. . . . not yet.
© Arlene S. Bice, 2008