a granite saddle shown ocean blue
that we see through to the floor
and I shudder feeling brief as a thought
on a walk of a light year
each scar and scab is some memory
of muscle human or elemental
I imagine beetle tracks beneath bark
even the etch of the Grimslake
could be a runnel in wood
this trickle still nourishes the stone ring
that became Grimr's pound*
here an orange slick slapped on stillness
warmth of toil on a misted highland
a quiet labour during the bronze hush
between stone and iron ages when
they chewed at the landscape
piling a heavy harvest
at the speed of unfolding petals
to fashion a man-high circle
of tame intent
the very idea of it
a grounded raven's sky-wheel
nameless until half as many years
were heaped upon it as parts in its whole
*Grimr: an alternative name for Odin, the chief god in Norse paganism.