Crows by the river Kennett
That flows to the Thames
That brings all the codes,
Remembering, through London.
That flows to the Thames
That brings all the codes,
Remembering, through London.
It's the Holy Bourne Spring
Across from Silbury Hill
On the chalk plateaus of Wessex
Where silica crystal takes and holds notation.
The water rises when the chalk gives way
And the earth releases the stream
As a living being, responsive
To the plateau's heart frequency.
As a living being, responsive
To the plateau's heart frequency.
It's past Merlin's Mound in Marlborough,
Silsbury's twin, due west from the Stonehenge portal
To the underworld, as a conduit, the water.
Magnetized flints fill the croplands like litter.
In West Kennett they used bones as musical instruments
In healing chambers of sound that housed
The ancestors, who taught them how music
Is the key to eternal life.
The mould-circled stones, once blindingly white,
Are still alive, aligned to all that is
In their respective spots via the dragon lines
To the inner earth and the outer rings of the cosmos.
Every stone has a different personality and shape
Like the purple-bearded wizards here
Who sell sticks, the praying-girl circles
And the dowsing rod picnics with dogs and candles.
They all have such stories not to tell.
The bird light language rustles the black poplars
To ground the fragile codes that hum
Deep within the sarsen stone.
The henge once filled with the underground springs
To turn the stones into power generation
To raise vibration, and provide a location
In the orbit around source.
Each stone was meticulously chosen,
Levitated and placed overnight
By sound alone, following older
By sound alone, following older
Instructions from the holy ones.
Ditches and circles like series circuits
Make toroidal vortices go,
Voltage straight to the heart center,
The vibration of an ankh, creation's middle C.
All current can flow through
If you only let it, in a
Continual conveyance to the stars
Like the river of ether it is,
Each stone is perfectly strange
And perfectly arranged for
The meridians to align,
To shake the trees and hillsides.
The crows have followed me all day,
They led me to fields, watched me from trees,
Weaved curiosity from circles overhead,
Ask from the ridge of a thatch roof finally
If I can experience something
For the first time,
Like watching a wicket keeper lift a shot
Or passing the Basingstoke Crematorium.
