Back
From sullen mounds of battered earth
it thrusts its fists at the universe;
millions of years of compressed dust.
A girl there waits, her lover climbs,
his warm breath on the crusted skin.
The spark the rock emits she's seen
in his eyes in the evening light,
and wonders if the rock might too,
within its own great density, have love,
passed on from clay to flesh
as the fragrance of a rose is,
or the wild flower's essence in a wood,
that would speak of love if an essence could.
by Wendy Bardsley
© Wendy Bardsley 2014
Millstone Grit