Dropping down to Wiltshire
skies as wide as ocean
fish clouds strum by
Barrow and Henge hug their secrets
warmed by the earth of England.
I swing past Manor house and Chantry
crop circles swirl eerily; trees so old
they watched the young King Henry
courtly dance his six wives
This land as green as Chaucer’s rhyme
each village swaddled by its tithe
the night alive with wiccan magic
and history has its own ring
to haunt me in the charnel’d night.