“They say the stones sleep. That they are old and forgotten… voiceless.
Is it so, little sister? Are they silent…or do they dream, the long, slow dreaming of aeons.
They were old when they were brought here. Older than memory. Older than time.
Their song never sleeps… it is we who live too fast.”
I’d written that a long time ago after a trip to the stone circle at Barbrook, bringing the vision of a seer to the page. “Sleepers awake, tell us your dreams”… Helen had written in that in her notebook a couple of days before visiting the place. And on the Friday morning, just after dawn when two of us had come to check the circle prior to the workshop, we had been shocked by the sense of ‘withdrawal’ at the stones… as if after too many centuries alone, they had finally sunk into sadness and allowed…
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