Steely grey it rises along
A country road veiled by
Trees shedding their
Summer finery.
A cottage sized hulking
Presence living there since
Cold white masses left
Scars and boulders.
This huge rock stands
Alone in a field of
Yellow flowers and
Autumn’s glow.
Like a sentinel through
Centuries it watched the
Passing of aboriginals
Pioneers and machines.
Native folk and pioneers
Must have noticed and
Used it as a marker on
The old time river trail.
Rare is the walking person
Rarer still the pausing driver
Who goes up to the solid rock
To stand next to the past.
Those who do are treated
To strength and silence
To rough and smooth
Surfaces carved by time.
A coolness lives there
Perhaps an ancient remnant
Of the passing ice as it
Left this great stone.
I stop often to consult the rock.
Massive and steady it listens
Words of sympathy are unspoken
But shallow worries fall away.
It’s said that stone is a living thing
Someday I hope to hear it sing.
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