I see the sun set from Whitehawk Hill, a horizon burning fast.
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 dead.
South, the oceans beckoning waves, crash onto black rocks.
The sun sets West, beyond Chanctonbury King.

...tales for another time...

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