Out there the stone ripples and undulates underfoot
as it did before time froze it midst the heaped sea
so now my sons can shatter it making morsels of the whole
crumble in the yellow afternoon.
They clamber over angles – how did stone become this shape?
All sandy from some other eon slipping by
that melted then re-hardened by kiln atmosphere
a cloudless chamber of gravity.
We guess and guess and watch the evening
shiver through the brushy Kunzea and daub the scribbly trees
with thickened light, creamy with cold.
The children fight imaginary dangers –
my daughters touch glowing pockets of moss
where spines of miniature growth make
soft wet pillows that cry dew when pressed
to make the rocks tear-stained trickles
form tiny pools then follow exact carven runnels.
The skin of time rumples for a moment
so below the sunset, below the crispy wind
men and women press new stories on the stone.