What I writ on my holidays - Part 3

Continuing from here...

Hetty Pegler’s Tump

In the corner of a farmer’s field,
A green-grassed mound,
Five thousand years above the plough,
Elliptical and ancient –
Enter thou, by twin-horned crawlway,
Slab-tunneled,
Pitch-dark void beyond;
Walls part, vault lifts,
To permit a penitent crouch –
Proceed by touch,
Small chambers open to the sides,
Once bone-alcoves,
Reliquaries for remains
Of the skyclad dead,
Clean, raven-picked
And collected,
To what chants and drums
We can never know –
Mourned, revered or celebrated,
Now empty but for Neolithic echoes
And us.