Fear is archaeological, the finds
yielded at the Ness of Brodgar
every summer in the six week window
of sunlight that falls flat out of the sky:
Neolithic people having a singsong
among their holy oxen when the wind
blew in. I fumble up
a kneebone and the sod is wet,
the picnic ended. A ripple
of flints and potsherds indicates
aftermath, ghosts the arrangement
of friends fallen out in a circle.
The fact of the song hangs back
but the order is in the system.
Megalith hum, the mind consumed
as Didcot Power Station’s last fuel,
so external, so huge, so subterranean.
Of course the body would break
down in the continental shadow
of such a Death Star so suspended
fragment from the rollright stones
joe minden is a poet based in brighton, uk