Omens.
Grand standing stones,
lichen pocked,
weather-worn omens,
older than old,
fern spotted,
winter-storm bitten,
devotion holed
boulders, so primitive
and time-honed.
You, aged faith-icons,
solidly coated
with mighty shoulders
cope well in fired
stress of sudden blows.
Cold granite-face rocks,
holy pinnacles,
scar-patched in mosses
deck sacred hills,
purple-mould knotted
belly, crevice ridden
your grassy-wet hollows
bent early history
with God-like resilience.
Not forgotten your hold
as ancient watchers
that conjure bold spirit
of moving onward
while remaining so still.
Stones know life\'s secret
of how best to win,
and I hope they tell me.