A Moss that Grows Upon the Rock
Stand stoic, black
rock who has weathered
cuts, scars;
gouged and hell for leathered,
of bludgeoned scarlet
eyes and coat of snow
beaten dead for
decades to see life grow.
These whispers of
hair that set home must strain,
slight at first,
unrevealed, until full flush
slim roots work
hard and fertilise this dust,
turns it over,
sucks in those given grains.
Moss flourishing
strong, seeming plumb and dull,
boasts spectrum hues and swollen curves full,
while moist breezes part brush fingered felting
her light thrives,
drives roots in rock and melting.
Look closely and
see her pulse flushed throat
beat life’s strong
tattoos upon winter’s coat.
No comments:
Post a Comment