Words and Lines

Only Rocks

by Tris Kerslake

Mere silica, this granite shaded into time. Some carbonaceous remnants, limestone tokens, shale. A poet’s tender soul should run a mile from you, and seek the softer song of lakes.

Fitted more for warriors, these cliffs that blast the edge of life, which hold the land, and guard our sleep are nearer shepherds, tending flocks of farms and cradled streams. No theme of war or bloody chant from them, but lullabies on gentle nights and sea’s lament.

And peaks, above the seasons, shrugging thunder down, who will not move, are fearful things, but from them we can see a world below, painted scenes of light and such beauty in the artist’s eye, these heights are only ladders placed for clearer views.

Nor is the crumpled empty scree of older days a bitter place, a waiting-room, it holds a piece of time, a slice of movement and of endless change, a chance for some to stand apart and breathe, to understand that pebbles on a barren shore are sometimes jewels.

Keep softness, keep oceans and the pretty cloud. Make paper ballads from the dainty birds and blooms, but give me only rocks and stone, the certain things, and I will write the very earth.