Taxi to stonehenge.(Brief Article)(Poem)

 
Taxi to Stonehenge 
 
   I passed a window full of televisions 
   as gray as British bankers, 
   though imported. 
   And there in England I saw 
   the twin towers of its former colony 
   crumble like toys made of fire 
   and brimstone, 
   the enormity of it more 
   terrible, reduced to fit in a living room. 
 
   Were we the only Americans in Bath 
   that November? So insisted 
   the taxi driver 
   winding his way to Stonehenge. 
   And there stood the stones just over a rise 
   As if just yesterday, back 
   in the Iron Age, 
   some first farmer had tried 
   to clear a field so he could plant it. 
 
   And there they still sat as if over the hill 
   would yet come a last wagon, 
   two centuries late, 
   and men to complain how hard 
   to break off a piece they could carry away. 
   For what earthly use was this folly 
   to the ...