02-03-2021, 04:40 AM
Cutting a trail uphill through cedar
Towards a grove of Spanish oak
I sat upon the ground to rest,
And prised up a stone from between my knees.
Wiping away the dried caliche,
I held a palm-sized, rocket-shaped flint point.
I had to stare at it before my eyes believed,
That I held an unfinished stone-age tool,
Left behind 400 years ago by a human like me,
But unutterably not me.
I seemed to watch myself remove the point
And discover it again and again.
I stood up and held it outstretched,
And gave a self-conscious shout
To no one but the cedar and the oaks,
A shout of joy: I’d been able to touch his hand
Outside of the centuries of dead between us.
Towards a grove of Spanish oak
I sat upon the ground to rest,
And prised up a stone from between my knees.
Wiping away the dried caliche,
I held a palm-sized, rocket-shaped flint point.
I had to stare at it before my eyes believed,
That I held an unfinished stone-age tool,
Left behind 400 years ago by a human like me,
But unutterably not me.
I seemed to watch myself remove the point
And discover it again and again.
I stood up and held it outstretched,
And gave a self-conscious shout
To no one but the cedar and the oaks,
A shout of joy: I’d been able to touch his hand
Outside of the centuries of dead between us.