Stonehenge Won't Talk

Some say I grew
from fingertips of gods -
pillars of their might. 
Might be I sprang
from beneath Salisbury plain 
beckoned by magnetic impulse,
or an extraterrestrial coax. 

Others hold that I 
am the mountain that man made,
with strong arms 
and lengths of rope,
drawing down the moon,
heaving determination
upon approximation of the sun's
sanguine smile
just to sacrifice sobbing
slabs of guiltless flesh
for Spring rain. 

I am the last mystery,
holding close
the chiseled stories 
of my own creation,
the stony regrets 
of my ubiquitous duration - 
and I
will never tell.