On Indian Rock

Indian Rock stands like a thumb of granite above a little sea of grass, close by the whispering of waters.

The Neolithic folk, so far in time, cut in its unforgiving crest the archetypal sigils of the twain,

Also, in a leaf cut shape my fingers tasted oil and fire, meat and fish, pressing concerns of nomads,

I smelled Dreamtime in the granite shapes,
Knowing this to be one of the joints of earth's body and empowering still,

The past so far is thought barely touches it,

Only the slow progression of the seasons is sensed.
Almost I am inbreathing the odor of ancient fires
In manifestation of the bones of God.

Quill Pen
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