Here are few waymarks,
old time, new time, time pressing through,
water wears out stone,
earth eats bone,
rich food for deep down
where roots reach;
this is the track that leads back,
up and along the crest, against the sky
where the huge clouds brush over,
back to the trackless.
Here you may be
a moving mark on a wide space, no more.
Lean on the wind and sun
let your shadow run
and follow on
to where one space rubs its back on another,
and the tors are scratching posts for clouds
that trundle over where the buckled rocks once melted and flowed
and the waves they made froze and wear away to dust.
Here, butting my thought on feeding time
like a nuzzling calf, here
where the puddles are sky traps
to catch all its moods,
where the fine grass shivers
by the tumbled standing stones,
here I enter stone time,
travelling back to the primal fires
of mothering stars.