Eric Ashford Poet Free verse

A Game of Stones

A rock salted field hard-by a thwacking sea,
a shore of time-crushed boulders
that form the twisted shadow-shapes
of long-forgotten histories,
margins where the scored etchings 
of red raw faiths and wind carved countenances 
are submerged signs only visible 
through the long-eroded lens of doom.

Here were once groups and troops 
that have died around their young bones
while laying exhausted in open camps.
At low-tide, among such eroded liniments,
a time-crushed human landscape is revealed.

We see the swift rise and fall of the long buried,
and recognize a towering significance: -
that it is we that will leave watermarks
for others to discover. A featureless ocean 
will whittle new features upon our own 
barbaric innocence.

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