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