The Ofi Press Magazine

You accompany me by the low road,
            brother in stone,
            hand in hand,

fingers entwined,

by Stenness and Brodgar from the yetts of Skara Brae,
passing the ends of perfection you envisaged

as grace threading each crooked aperture,
the faultless line, the perfect circle.

Other kings who have passed
have left remains of their forgotten names,

            peculiar crowns,
            shards of skeletons,
            fish-heads,
            unpronounceable words,
            indecipherable runes,
            commandments,
            eulogies graven in stone.

But wherever your throne has set down live blood in mortal veins

you leave us radiant, resplendent.

Even though your tomb is empty,
its darkness is ablaze with the light of your presence.

On the threshold we clink our cups,
as you add a last touch to this face

already dreaming its history.

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