The whispering knights

Sat on a scarp of the cotswold hills
To the north the stour valley
To the south be the Swere
Close to the witches of Long Compton fame
The whispering knights can be heard so I hear

Oolithic limestone on a round barrow
A place of burial
Wonderfully narrow
Of early construction so it be said
A bronze age monument housing the dead

At Samhain the goosebumps are felt by the few
Walking the path the Bright Hill Wood through
Imagining the hunter gatherer clan
In reverent mood the sweet hills to scan
The Kings men the Kings Stone
A form of lament
Though The wild souls that frequent this place seem
Content

To work in the circle the moles everyday
Working the earth in their own special way
The weasels the voles too creatures of grace
Observing the beauty of this sacred space
How many pagans have stopped off to pee
With thoughts of what strange eyes
Look at them, they be
Sat on the sod so many before
Who have heard the whispers
Deep down in their core

Startled by breezes and possibly sighs
Of perhaps bolder spirits calmed by the skies
Sat by a fire in a constant desire
Witches of Long Compton really prior
To a coven of witches in the spiritual sphere
Drenched in light drenched in soul
Eyes wet with tear

A drop or two falling on a dusting of snow
Where the larch and the pine and the sycamore grow
The whispering knights their
hot breath doth rise
Over the hills and into the skies
Chipping be sleeping
Great Rollrights too
In those woods there be colours
Of every hue.