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.