Barrow Mist

- Primula

The barrow downs lie in the mist,
The wreathing wisps grasp the stones,
Call me now a pessimist
But this cold reminds of bones.

Long ago they fell beneath,
Dark the shades that crept within,
Heavy gold they shall bequeath,
Entrapping weight to stiffen.

Why did we stop, unthinking?
Now my plaintive cry resounds,
Answered only in clinking,
Far beneath the barrow downs.