Sunday, 10 April 2022
A poem for the 26th annual American
National Poetry Month.
Story of a Standing Stone
I am as old as time; I have stood
petrified in this place for thousands
of years — at least that's what
I want human minds to think
I see it in their eyes as they stand and
stare at me — disbelief etched on their
faces, creases furrowing their brows
like fault lines in the earth of distant lands
"Wow", "Du meine Güte", "Mon Dieu!"
the expressions of astonishment in many
tongues echo unceasingly back and forth
around the circle of my fellow stony friends
At night when only the moon and stars can
hear we send out ghostly whispers on the wind;
tales of when slaves laboured hard, in heat
and cold to drag us to the spot in which we
still stand today, silent and erect like monks
while the sun is in the sky; come dark we
are released — like children we dance, skip
jump and play — it's our secret, no human
will ever know. Not even the druids who come
in droves at Midsummer to hug us and hum
their tuneless dirges in celebration of the
longest day; not even those pagan men will
guess, for the only time of the year when we sleep
ourselves is Midsummer night. If only those
humans knew what we get up to when they're away
It's our story, but we'll never tell a living soul
— to them we'll always just be those crazy
silent standing stones
© Carola Huttmann, 10 April 2022
