The Rock

This is when The Rock is at its best.
This is when The Rock lays back
relaxing in the warmth as the
summer sun rises above
the gleaming
firmament.

Sometimes I imagine what The Rock would
say and I know that it would cry
out if poetic river mouths kept
their silence long enough
to get an edgewise
word in.

To speak unchanging truth and long-suffering
dispelling all those vain imaginations
of trophies mounted high on
library walls and lecture
halls and tell a
simple story.

How, years ago, the strong young cliff felt the
icy expansion within its crevices
gradually push it away until
it sloughed off onto
the shoreline
here.

Though no one saw it happen or heard
the mighty crash so unlike the
hypothetical tree falling
for here it lies
beneath
me.

This is when I come to find my reflection
upon these same waters that often
deny my approaches with their
tempestuous outbursts
and sudden mood
changes.

I am forced to watch helplessly from far away
on higher ground while it beats upon
The Rock but it is of no avail for
The Rock has proven itself
and earned this day
of rest.

Resting from the winter ravages as storm after
storm pelted it with tragic broadcasts
of stones and ice polishing
it smooth for it will
no longer be
broken.

Resting from the long moonlit nights of cradling the
supple half-clothed shoulders of passionate
lovers the huddled forms of
mournful dreamers the
well worn souls of
solitary thinkers.

I love The Rock and I love The Waters and
I love The Gentle Wind that carries
the sweet scent of distant shores
and spices The Air with
the wild odors of
adventure.

© 1998 William Edward Isles