Giant occupants, the last generation of
the earth-force jagged mountain split,
Stones ajutting,
Sovereigns astride their plateau,
Shadowed only by the fleeting hops of a starling
Or a juniper that clings for a century,
Boulders, majestic and unchallenged in their sinecures over the plain,
Holding secret their primeval tales from a vast storehouse of the ages.

Why should we stop to rub our palms on these fixtures, or sit and render them in ephemeral textures,
These venerable residents of a panorama no one else will ever own,
These sculptures we just flit by, whether we spend by them minutes or years,
Before ourselves being whisked away to climes
Whose foundation may lack for stone?
What can we fancy that these rocks say to us,
Their unwinking stance deaf to our epochs,
Offering neither initiation nor response, nor even pity,
However long we stand before them?

We may come by them,
Fall silent through imitation,
And return to our daily devices,
Wiser only because briefly our lightning thoughts flickered before their impedence,
While they preserve nothing of our attentions,
Responding at the end only to
The splash of the rains each Spring.

Andy Oram
April 17, 2017

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