was like this black rock;
impervious to the sea.
Would that my heart was like
this granite cliff
that holds no memory
of the headstrong rush
of the tidal race
or that still day’s quiescent hush.
Impassioned storms of wind-whipped waves
have written history on the shore
with tangled rope and dried sea-wrack
curled in arbitrary embrace ..
and salt-bleached keels
of driftwood beached like ghostly boats
Why is my heart more like
the impressionable sand
than this dark, ungraven rock?
I turn my face seaward
and ask the keening wind ..
The answer lies in the fathomless deep
beyond the edge of dreams
where age-old stone speaks to age-old stone
in tales of heartache, joy and pain
and nothing is as impervious as first it seems
yet the stoic rock remains … .