walking the same landscape our ancestors shaped
under the same sullen skies and windswept clouds
great granite boulders hold the hills in a delicate balance
but what now are visible were once woodland cloaked
oh how this has changed yet in some ways not
the streams and drovers’ tracks run a little deeper, yes
worn and rutted by water, wheels, hooves and feet
the trees are gone, replaced by thick stone walls
and farmhouses with solid chimneys blend themselves neatly in
as if hewn from the rock during some dark night storm
this land has stood witness to many such beatings
as wave after wave of cliff batterings took their toll
the gorse bushes bent double like old men in Sou’westers
but it was underground that men also ventured
picking away at the rich seams of tin
that would kill more than would make wealthy
we traipse across a boggy field to Mên-an-Tol
where thrice through the hole will cure your ills
or so the stories go

The Mên-an-Tol standing stones near Madron in Cornwall with the Ding Dong tin mine in the distance.

6 thoughts on “Mên-an-Tol

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