POEM - Stone Altars

Not raised by hand, but claimed by ancient will,

Where bedrock thrust a shoulder to the sky,

Or glacial drift left monoliths stock-still

Beneath the watchful, ever-wandering eye

Of wheeling stars. These were the primal slate,

The first Stone Altars. Unadorned and vast,

They caught the rain, the sacrificial fate

Of lightning's strike, the shadow giants cast.

Here, instinct knelt before the raw unknown,

A berry spilled, a feather loosely laid –

No doctrine scribed on tablet or on bone,

Just reverence in trembling, unvoiced shade.

The stone absorbed the tremor, held the plea,

The silent pact 'twixt earth and what might be.

Then came the shaping. Hammer-stroke on flint,

On granite harsh, on sandstone soft and deep.

Rough fingers grappled, driven by the glint

Of purpose fiercer than the moon could keep.

To heave and drag, to set in solemn ring,

Or stack in courses reaching for the dawn;

A dolmen arch, a sacred offering

Of sweat and blood upon the landscape drawn.

These stones grew heavy with intent, became

The focused lens for desperate human prayer.

The harvest plea, the kindling of flame

To ward off famine, chaos, dark despair.

Upon their cold, implacable expanse,

Life's fragile essence met its deadly chance.

Red stains seeped deep into the porous grain,

Not rain, but offering both rich and grim.

The shuddering breath, the sharp, releasing pain,

The chalice filled unto the trembling brim

Of gods unseen, demanding tribute stark.

The smoke curled thick, a bitter, cloying veil,

Hiding the face of daylight, leaving dark

The dreadful truth where mortal powers fail.

The stone, impassive, drank the crimson flow,

A silent witness to the trembling trust

That life for life might make the green things grow,

Or turn aside the spear-thrust in the dust.

It held no judgment in its weathered face,

Merely the weight and consecrated space.

Centuries turned. The sanguine shadows fled,

Or hid beneath the incense-laden air.

New whispers rose where martyrs once had bled –

The murmured psalm, the friar's quiet prayer.

A chisel's touch, more delicate and fine,

Carved saintly forms from unyielding rock,

Transforming terror to a sacred sign,

A key to grace within the temple's block.

The altar stone, now smoothed by faith's soft hand,

Held simple bread, a chalice filled with wine,

A focus for a gentler, promised land

Beneath the vaulted, echoing divine.

The blood remembered was the Saviour's own,

Upon the stone no longer flesh and bone.

Time gnaws the edges. Lichen paints its green

On weathered steps where pilgrims used to tread.

The carvings blur, their meanings dimly seen,

By all but scholars and the patient dead.

The sacred groves gave way to ordered fields,

The standing stones now guard the grazing sheep.

The power yielded, though the form still yields

A quietude where ancient secrets sleep.

Yet still they stand, these monuments of awe,

In windswept field, on mountain's lonely crown,

Or hidden deep where mossy shadows draw

A curtain on a more forgotten town.

They speak of time that dwarfs our fleeting breath,

Of rituals faced beyond the gate of death.

And even now, in spaces we declare

Profane, the echo lingers, faint but sure.

A river rock smoothed by a child's soft care,

Held warm and close, a comfort to endure

Some childish grief. A garden's border stone,

Where hands that plant also unconsciously

Trace patterns known to ancestors unknown,

A silent nod to rooted mystery.

The kitchen table, worn by daily grace,

Where thanks are said and breaking bread is shared –

Does not its grain hold an altar's trace?

Is love not offered, tenderly prepared?

For every place we hallow with our need,

Becomes a stone where fragile hearts may bleed.

So witness, then, these altars made of earth,

These anchors cast against the shifting tide

Of fleeting years, affirming human worth

In seeking where the sacred might reside.

They mark the spot where terror met the sky,

Where sacrifice cried out in desperate trust,

Where gentler spirits learned to sanctify

The common ground, dissolving primal dust.

They are the bedrock where we built our pleas,

The silent stage for every hope and dread,

The weight that holds our restless histories,

The mute companions of the living and the dead.

Stone Altars stand: not gone, but changed, transformed,

By all the human spirit has performed.

Short Summary:

This poem traces the enduring presence of Stone Altars through human history. It begins with their primal origins as natural formations inspiring awe, then explores their shaping into sites of potent, often bloody, sacrifice. It observes their transformation under gentler faiths into sacred Christian spaces, and acknowledges their eventual quiet decay, reclaimed by nature. The poem concludes by suggesting the altar's essence persists – not just in ancient ruins, but in the quiet, hallowed spaces of modern life (a child's treasured rock, a worn table) where we continue to seek meaning, offer gratitude, and confront our deepest needs, affirming that the human impulse to create sacred ground is an enduring legacy written in stone.