This poem refers to the spookiness of the clusters of trees that often grow around stone circles; even now the old superstitions weigh on those who would trespass after dark.
Inside the trees
is another place: unlit, uncharted.
At night even braggers refuse to enter
those grotesque tunnels.
At night boulders walk,
boughs flex their biceps;
high up, screeching necks
toss slicks of hair;
even the summer wind
squeals through like a hunted pig.
After dark the trees stir cauldrons
of brains and guts.