Royal raven son

I wonder about the times gone, 

when these stones were more than
listening posts to bees;
when
the scratches cleaved into your face,

Mên Scryfa, 
meant more
than the lichen's resting place.
You can be a silhouette against
whatever sky you like:
the arrogance of blue in summer,
the sepia tones of winter.
Are you prehistoric,
I thought, 
when we walked in high summer
to see you, exposed in a meadow
where gorse had scratched our legs on the way,
where
corn sang in a hushed whisper,
the field ringing with the presence of you.
Is your human counterpart,
your soul or daemon spirit,
buried underneath?
Does he, a royal raven son perhaps,
bleed something of the past in the ground
that makes it hum here,
stopping walkers in their tracks
with reverence?
They say he was as tall as you,
and under you lies slain,
but whatever history is packed into your every inch,
I find falling through my grasp,
unable to concede that life was here
before us,
before this high summer,
a bruise of something brewing.
We visited, we looked,
we stood in silence and 
we
took photographs of you on film,
but when they were developed, 
they never quite caught
the presence of you;
the hum.