Old, cold mystery its feet; eyes in darking blue,
it stands simple, rock-fast; bow-ridges
cleaned a thousand million years by
walking water, soft and hard.

Bound and boundless, steeping grey around,
blacking now, with autumn night.
Mooselicks in the bush
welcome some staggering, crowned pirate; not me.

I am different; African and hotter.
It takes a moment to adapt,
every time.
Yet I am it; it I; I am grey, chill, steeping tower,
and mirror surface slicing off the known,
false memories of dawn the under side.

The secrets in the rock
call out to mine and, silent, 
flower.

Lichen's us, and we dark crevices of power.

And night the bloom of evening rose.

And rose.  And rose.  And  

Rose.

©  Copyright, 2000; Malcolm Beckett