The sun shined slivers from its gold-orange
Sphere, breaking through the trees as to avenge
The makers of Stonehenge, tied to the sun
And sun-made oaks, in cloaks that hands had spun,
Ensuring purity with their pure hands,
Hands pure from human blood as the demands
Of deity are met, to find the one
That does not rhyme a match -- or is there none? --
A match that doesn't match and therefore makes
A more engaging mate, until it takes
Its final line of light below the lip
Of land and light releases its last grip.