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Poetry
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| stonemasons tale | |
| By ellyb39 | ||||
| 23 June 2006 | ||||
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I quite like the idea of a conversation using an inaminate object. I am appearing, your calloused hands make me shape me, forming my reality. Your hammer and chisel are steady and sure,years cutting stone, feeling your way. Growing solidly , I can feel my own power. I am a division, a boundary, a shelter, a landmark. Days I've been working up here on the hill,. the weathers been battering , rain, wind blasts still. The stones all need cutting, and facing and shaping until they are settled here in the wall. My hands have made houses, churches and roads, they still know the way although they are old. At night in my bed while the rain beats around, my hands throb and ache as I snuggle down. My reminders of jobs gone long past now are here , in the pangs of clattering, tendons and bones. As morn is rising I am up on the torr, building and jangling making some more, my wall stretches downwards, I see her arrive and people walk round her and gaze at the space, how man has marked this hillside face.. Feeling so tired, age grates my world, my life has been simple and full of work. I join the churchyard down by the cedar tree. His body is laying protected by me,. Lichens are growing, close in my clefts. Surrounded by grass tickling and edge. My stones are still sharp, blackbirds will perch, skylarks dart byswift in the sky.. his tombstone is simple, clear and distinct, not weathered or damaged by natures disguise.
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