(The Rollright Stones in Oxfordshire consists of about 77 lumps of weathered limestone in a perfect circle, some nearly lost in the short turf. It dates back probably to 3000 BC.)

How did I get here? Was it just chance
That the garden I planned to visit was shut?
That I drove back home the prettier way
And turned down the lane to the Stones. But –

Anyway, here I am at the Circle:
Primeval boulders, pitted and grim,
Leaning and lying, like broken teeth
In a mouth that sucks the traveller in.

How did they haul the Stones into place?
Did they sun-dance, rain-dance, make the crops grow?
Surely, it’s still a sacred space for
(Magic!) here are Dancers I know -

Committee ladies in sensible shoes,
We hum March Hare and grapevine away
We dance for the living, dance for the dead,
Dance for ourselves on this glorious day.