The stony silence in the great field
is a song whose words I do not hear,
yet it beckons …
The stones have no voice
but their music rises from the resonant earth,
a mix of ancient chords,
the glacier’s pulse for tempo.
The dull and dirty stones sing and sing,
their harmony in millennial measure,
their harmony in lasting sameness,
each with each,
and in their nature, enduring without change,
without distinct past and future,
with truth only in the moment,
perforce, with almost perfect resistance to change
in lieu of elegant quickening spirit.
These stones experience only place as variety,
they are stone-like in whatever aspect,
Their singing is a song of self, of steadfastness,
of strongest will to be.
The stones do stone things wherever they may lie,
in sheltering earth,
or cast aside from a garden,
in cairn, in wall —
the stones ever cling to their stony ways.
So. This is for learning.
I heed this clarion music of the stones
and I sing the song of me.
I cleave to my loves and my plans
and my special pleasures
and my sense of the right things,
and yet I will welcome each new place
and learn to be me there.
Photo credit: Author.
Author Note: Inspired by “The Stones” by Wendell Berry. First published on November 18, in The Australia Times Poetry Magazine 2016.