On this almost-solstice day, I am reminded of the hush of this northern English site—a woodhenge rather than the more familiar stonehenge, a site long, long predating the Romans, facing the Cheviot Hills, a place of prayer, dancing, and song.
The hush itself seems sacred to me; silence is a clearing, a ruined temple, the lofty moted reaches of a cathedral spire.
Quiet is a gift to the ears.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Maelmin Henge
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