I see the sun set from Whitehawk Hill, a horizon burning
Sky of autumn red, into the sea has bled, as today
becomes the past.
Who will remember those long now gone,
the Iron Age tribe of this land.
Who worshipped gods of Sun and Moon,
in ages past on Whitehawk Hill.
North is the spiral mount, at Lewes of the Weald.
To the east lies the long man, guarding the realm of the
South, the oceans beckoning waves, crash onto black
The sun sets West, beyond Chanctonbury King.
...tales for another time...