While looking for the past concealed
I saw no lumps in yonder field
No barrow, ditch or buried bones
No trilithon, no ring of stones
No avenue to lead me hence
No outer bank, stakeholes or fence
No charred remains, no urn, no cist
Poor amateur archaeologist!
The slightest shadow stirs the blood
The thought of Swallowhead in flood
The dream of unrecorded sites
The faintest markings, chalky white
Long walks through nettles overgrown
Empty-handed, going home
Because there’s nothing there to see
Ah, amateur archaeology!
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