The dancing stone of a dark, flame -flicked cave.
Recalls the magic of a prehistoric age.
Walls awash with leaping bison stock and the fingerprints of unwashed maids.
The carefully remembered, paint -rendered rumps buck and ruck over stone curves.
15,000 years before wooden crosses, ships and lathes.
Before the time of astronomy, though there always were the stars.
Before gastronomy, though all man must eat.
Thirst was quenched with waters which ran across the land and stomachs filled with the flesh of berries, birds and beasts.
Time passes and the rituals remain the same.
The magic hasn't changed.
The dancing, feasting, drinking, creating is the same.
The bison have gone and the girls I know use soap.

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