Sarsen Circle

 

It’s not the druid priestess speaking to me in my dreams

It’s not the celtic lord, nor yet the Wessex king

It’s not the call of history, though that is rich and deep

It’s something much more simple

That keeps me from my sleep

 

It’s not the roman legions, that settled in this land

It’s not the norman conquerer nor yet the saxon theign

It’s not the abbey church nor the ghost of Gwynevere

It’s not those courtly nuns, who whisper in my ear

 

Take me home, take me home

To where the sarsen circle stands upon the plain

Take me home, take me home

Let my acheing heart be free again

 

Waking up one morning, in a strange new room

In my native village, the place where I was born

I heard the cooing of the doves in the nearby trees

And this it was that spoke to me, long after in my dreams

Give to me the april showers and the harvest moon

Give to me the hawthorn, the scent of early June

Where the winding roads, made by a drunkard‘s hand

Lead the lonely wanderer through an ancient land

It’s not the druid priestess speaking to me in my dreams

It’s not the celtic lord, not yet the Wessex king

It’s not the abbey church nor the ghost of Gwynevere

It’s not those courtly nuns, who whisper in my ear