The Stone Circle

THE STONE CIRCLE

by Isobel Granby

He started, wind-stung, felt the evening chill
Descending in an instant — saw the day
Slip into solitary dusk. The still
Dark-fingered trees were restless; on the hill
A silhouette, lit by a lingering ray,
Blackened the stones from their familiar grey.

He’d watched the ring since, as a wilful child,
He’d stolen from the gate, and drawing near
That ancient circle, touched their skin, beguiled,
And called upon the air, the hunters wild
To take him on their steeds. No mortal fear
He knew — but love of birds, and music clear,

And trackless air, was in his soul; he yearned
To join the dancing on Midsummer’s Eve
Which no foot wearies, and he’d often turned
As winter’s ruddy light reluctant burned
To catch a glimpse of Them, ere they should leave —
And, disappointed, walked away, to grieve.

Dreams come not for the asking — wit and will
Turn fools, contrary in the desperate hour
When silent figures supplicate — and still
He asked, and hoped, and gave of milk, or flour,
Or new-made ale (whate’er was in his power)
As silent invitation, on the sill

Of his own house. The merry laugh that filled
The smoke-sweet air was from his wife — the cat
That teased their bonny child, and stalked and killed
Each pestilential louse, or plaguing rat,
Slept at their own stone hearth. The geese grew fat;
The cow gave cream; the music never stilled.

Yet in his hours of quiet, he would rise
And pace the path his feet had ne’er forgot,
And gaze upon the hill with rheumy eyes,
Speaking low murmurs to the stones. He thought
For all her clever sight, she saw him not:
Such self-deception as vain youth denies,

Old age embraces. So he stood in wait
As faded twilight stole across his view
From the stone circle to his iron gate.
He had no thoughts, as night about him grew,
Save, ‘It’s the equinox’ — and that he knew
It was a night for revels. She was late

Returning from the town, and this alone
Made him uneasy — till a sudden light,
Like her own lantern, through the bracken shone,
Illuminating, in the ring of stone,
A troop of dancers, seeming half in flight.
A thousand torches followed, blazing bright

Upon the weird and wondrous company
Assembled on the withered grass. The scene
Set stars akindle, woke the earth, and she
In music’s midst, called to him, laughingly,
With all the joy of one who, long unseen,
Now rises up, of her good people queen —

An oak in spring, green, graceful-limbed, and strong
Untouched by mortal years, however long.
But still he knew her face, her keen, swift glance
Her golden laugh, flushed with the flow of song —
His weary feet, at last, took up the dance:
Dreams come not for the asking — but by chance.