| Stone-hearted, the outlines came mindfully around the jowl Of the mound, rising immensely over the arc of years To demarcate a cavity. Swifts stayed the course Of our slow ascent, through a kissing-gate and up, Up, up to pay lip-service to the sky lark. You named the eye-bright and mithered gorse And forty monikers of ancient moss, until, at length, Hidden in a hole of howling air and pressed against A ginnell, the ghost of another pilgrimage rose To melt the grin of heartless giants. We watched the wind score water from the wound. Disciple of downs, converted late in life To worship the crag-bones of ogres Older than Noah, I know only this, That I would creep this crooked smile time And again, trawl the length of limestone molars Just to spy those unconquered contours, Defiant on the endless moor. Cliff James |  |
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Hawks Stones
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