John Bailey

Who knows now the way to stand a stone?

When erect it needs precise alignment,
matching node to node across the lines.

It can ground the chimes of the wind or sour them,
strum quiet earth songs or shout war-cries to the stars.
The wrong priest would ruin us all.

Best leave it where it fell, leave it
sinking slow inches into the mould,
singing elder songs in forgotten voices,
speaking lost words in a misplaced tongue.

Being prostrate, half its geometry is stilled,
directing the ways of hidden worms.

The skyward half still feels the wind,
makes the right angle to its force,
shadows sun paths and moans in the cold.