Widow at Stonehenge

by Meg Smith

Glastonbury, England, March 2015

I reached through
the rain, the mist,
the school children,
paper airplanes —
the babel of the bus,
to just one want.
What were the hungers.
Where stood the bones.
Surely, they laughed.
Surely they walked back
as though to move
time itself.
Wouldn’t every widow.
Wouldn’t every lost cat.
Every oak leaf,
every begging,
outstretched hand
at King’s Cross.
I do not have the luxury
of circles.
I only move forward,
dark or near dark,
sun or sun.