This Rock

has been on a journey from the north,
tumbled by the shove of ice,
blunting its edges and angling south
at an irregular pace.

It rolled through ice fields
and future crop land. It forded
rivers, stayed awhile on a sun-struck hillside.
It welcomes the rain, hunkers in snow,

and sleet has glazed its sides; cracks
developed but little sluffing.
Birds sing from its topmost facet, their
notes falling like dust onto slopes and fissures.

It was a haven for insects and the webs
of trawling spiders, before moving on
to a new halt, new neighborhood.  Worms
enter, lichen paints in apple green

and ocher abstracts. Finally,
at least for now, it digs its nethers
into earth, which firms around.
It will stay as long as it can.

Trees will join and the caressing scents
of flower and horse. Grass will grow
and cows will keep enough
distance to let the blades thicken.

It has not needed to think, or consider.
It simply started its journey by
breaking free of the mother and settling
into a glacial trek, pausing when allowed,

moving on when insisted, until it came here
where you walk these familiar grounds,
you who clamber to its high tor
with your bottle of water

and your writing pad,
to drink in the warmth of sun,
the vista to the sea,
and the hardness of travel..

CB Follett


Susan Black, Dwelling Place of Light, Watercolor