This picture above of a stile in Winter was the subject of a poetry challenge in a group I belong to, and as there is a style of sorts leading to the neolithic site known as Les Trois Rocques, that became the theme and title of the poem.
The stones are something of a mystery. They are clearly neolithic, but lack the supporting trig stones at the base of single standing stones or menhirs. There is no archaeological material to place them. My own guess is that they are the last remaining stones from a much larger dolmen or passage grave which stood on the site.
Les Trois Rocques
Cows graze in summer, but now bare:
Soft Winter Sun, not Summer glare;
And I climb the stile, into the field:
Beyond such treasures yet to yieldl
The field is fallow, green, green grass,
Not many come this way to pass;
But I do, for here is one chance,
A sacred site to come and glance;
In the field beyond, lo it is there!
From long ages past, many a year,
Since the tribe put up these stones,
And now they are but dust and bones;
Once so many stones, but not so now,
And I don’t know either when or how,
They were destroyed, but now alone:
There are but three, mark sacred zone;
Huge granite rocks, set along a line:
Why were they built? Perhaps a sign?
And I come here on the Winter’s day,
Over style and field, along old way;
They call to me, from time long past,
These three stones, now just the last;
And once a year, I touch the stones,
Lost legacy, so many unknowns,
And then return, across the grass,
For even these, will come to pass