Sandstone: Evening

Poetry

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.

 

 

 

 

 

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