![]() ![]() Roger Wakefield stood in the center of the room, feeling surrounded. But no one knows the function or the purpose of the stones. Some say the hill is enchanted, others say it is cursed. The name of the hill is Craigh na Dun the fairies' hill. ![]() A small circle, standing stones on the crest of a steep green hill. The sight of the stones was fresh in my mind. The third time I woke alone, beyond the touch of love or grief. I repelled consciousness, turning again, seeking the sharp, warm smell of a man's satisfied desire, in the reassuring arms of my lover, sleep. I came awake then in fierce joy, body arched bowlike in the throes of physical joining, the touch of him fresh on my skin, dying along the paths of my nerves as the ripples of consummation spread from my center. I turned my face to the wet pillow and sailed a salty river into the caverns of grief remembered, into the subterranean depths of sleep. The tears of a bone-deep loss woke me slowly, bathing my face like the comforting touch of a damp cloth in soothing hands. First in sorrow, then in joy, and at the last, in solitude. ![]()
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