Feelings About Rocks

Sometimes rocks make you feel things.

Das Rad

The Mountain King

An Object At Rest

The Historian's Aprentice

The Historian’s Apprentice

By the light of the candles,

And the smell of the must,

I wear out my elbows,

Shifting cobwebs and dust.

And fetching the ink, 

For the Grey Hat to scribe,

But for me to be near her,

Is enough of a bribe.

She babbles and mutters,

As she wields her straw broom.

As the long candles flicker,

Her words fill up the room.

She drawls about medicine,

And mutters in verse,

And her opinions on maths,

Come out clear and terse.

When she lectures on love,

A tear shines in her eye,

But, I’ll never have the courage,

To ask her just why.

When her broom is hung up,

And the ink put away,

And the last of the chores,

Are checked off for the day.

She looks at me then,

Through rheumy grey eyes,

As the last of the sunlight

Reflected there dies.

And I take her gnarled hand,

And I lead her back home,

Where she sleeps like a bookmark,

In a bed-sized old tome.

The Dark Water

Wax and grow, spreading, slow,

Trickle and wend, around the bend.

Gurgle and flow, up we go,

To laughter's death and smile's end.

Seep, creep, up the wall,

Grip the pipe, grasp the gutters,

Up to the highest windows tall,

To parch the life behind the shutters.

Bubble and creep, quick and steep,

Ooze and pour, onto the floor,

Through the window, in we seep,

To the light blue room, with the painted door.

The White Hat

Her office space is very neat;

A desk, a bust, and an official seat.

She sits tall, erect and prim,

she'll smile at you as you walk in.

But for visitors, there is no chair;

no space to sit, just walls and air.

So, nervously, you shuffle in,

beneath her gaze, and her steady grin.

What the Wind Brings - Page 01