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The Sacred Stones

The priests cried out and said they're stuck!
The village folk reviled the muck.
For it was not a man's great luck,
To move the sacred stones as ruck.

But toil they did, to free the stones,
And right their place with flesh and bone.
Each disencumbered piece atoned,
In silence, as the ruck would moan.

Until all the ancient rocks stood high,
The coterie upright and dry.
The priests condoled and spoke of why,
Each obelisk must touch the sky.

But despite the days of holy toil,
For labours here on sacred soil,
A silence raged, for pious moil
Their faith in higher virtues spoil'd.

And the time they lived went slowly past,
Each man would die, but the rocks stood fast.
Their work would mark as holy mast,
And revised their faith in what was cast.

Time always withers man's resource,
And his stay on earth must run its course,
But no sadness here or grand remorse,
The stones all stand to show his force.

And they remain as markers still,
To touch the sky upon the hill.
And not to praise just one soul's skill,
But to show the world mans faith fulfilled.

Stephen Redgwell - 2004