Monday, January 13, 2014


This poem is inspired by Sardinia. It's an extraordinary place with prehistoric sites going back many millennia. The landscape itself inspires one, as you can see from this transparent cloud/mountain photo that I took on my final day.

The best known are the nuraghe. These are conical structures and began to be built around 1800 BCE, which is quite late. In walking into a nuraghe, especially if you are lucky enough to be on your own, the power of the intangible space is extraordinary. Archaeologists have a tendency to notice only the vertical and horizontal space. I was surprised at St Antine (the Saint bit is a later addition to the name and an appropriation by Christians of their predecessors) that none of the drawings indicated the spiral space that wound up from floor to the top. There were three spirals at St Antine. In addition there were horizontal circular pathways. It was an amazing place.

I found out about the betyls in a little book and just had to backtrack some 20-30 km along back roads to see them. They are conical stones and breasted. At Macomer there were three breasted stones. There was something rather cheeky about them.

At Goni, I was blown away by the power of the menhirs. There were lots of them, a long semicircular line of stones, of which the two pictured were a part.

Agnese and I wander
turn full circle
stare at the megalithic words
breasted betyls and sickled mehnirs
rocks piled in poetic structures
we walk hand in hand
between the lines
disappear behind towering boulders
put our ears to the rocks
listen to the songs

the breath of an iynx says Agnese
a wryneck flies between us
all a-hum
creation’s breath

we wander through labyrinthine myths
stories leading along winding paths
a wall    a dead end
spiralling through intangible space
retracing we find other pathways
different tales tucked into tiny spaces

here a spinner
here a songster
stories buried by rockfall
by the passage of time
and wind

here the one who walks
a colossal stone
precariously balanced
like a spindle
upon her head
she walks and knits
pearl one plain one

stories cleave in Sardinia Scotland
Malta where giants built
mother-daughter temples

we reach Sardinia
there the words take off
coalesce in swarms of uncried tears
that run down the towering nuraghe


  1. This comment has been removed by the author.

  2. I don't know why my last line has changed font size!!!

  3. Susan, I LOVE this poem and the rhythmic elegance of your words. Kathy

  4. I loved Sardinia. Though parts of this poem were written before I went!