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Marching Rocks



  Like Toffee people chasing the westerly breeze
And, presumably ordered, abruptly, to freeze-
Tableaux is evocative of an ancient command
That left a sprawl of stones scattered on the land.

  On swift flight in one course towards the West
Serrated line of rock tell of a progeny abreast
Giant Boulder between on a determined lead
Balanced rocks, leaden load on top of his head.
 
   A Clan of rock here appears pretty cold;
Disdainful faces from a timid Toffee’s mould...
Could be true- that it was once a woman witty:
Polished smooth with soft cheeks so pretty...
On the rear side, a bulge and a brood of stones
A beast of burden caught up with her clones!

  A Bohemian was he- the load crushing his neck
Perhaps a demo to Sisyphus his toil to check! 

  Maybe on their way up the mountain they rose
On the brink desperately perched yet so close;
From a distance, they are rusted teeth so bare
Facing Heaven, their protest to eerily declare;
Curved spine of a Beast in primordial repose 
Its Grave sluiced with elements bones to expose.

  This rock speaks of a Gallant’s March so solid
By an old Leader with subjects now squalid
Yet, obsessed with loyalty, trailing at his rear
As they toed the line in their usual solid war gear.

  This chap half embed; where are his limps....?
Vain effort to extricate self like chained chimps!
He calls to me with a silent voice in choking mist
To evade captivity or grab liberty by the wrist.
  
  So they froze while in each other’s loving hug
Before the Big Bang blew the cataclysmic bug;
Now, they have nothing except their embraces
And pain of thwarted esteem printed on the faces.
Blank stare, with déjà vu, spelt in a cold stone
Relating how their conjugal dreams have gone!
Hope he’s not committing adultery this Guy, 
Suitor’s sweet hold he doesn’t want to defy.

  Cold Rock every story line can eloquently tell
Happiness, Love, Pain, of Heaven and of Hell
Stones preach, command, mourn in a voice mute
For the Fate done by Nature the daring Brute.
They find their voice by the hand of sculpture
Furnishing visage and lending a voice of rupture.

  Ozymandias’ pouted lips and his wise gaze
Solid mass on sand fragments that dazzle or daze...  
Moai Ancient sculptor with narrow forehead
Noses drooping long, sniffing of ancestors dead
To stir to Life these giant stones deeply yearn
Why can we not from these stones our Life learn?

  The cracked boulder, pieces strewn or drooping
Or, twisted necks affected by eavesdropping
(Maybe, just given to the energy to listen)
Or watch what eyes cannot resist its glisten.
Despite being immortalised in a march static
Their voice is loud; their idle life too is hectic!


***Inspired by the spectacular balancing rocks and boulders.

JM

11th Nov. 2013
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