Tor

Granite,
Standing,
Stacked.
Two hundred and thirty million years
On the roof of the world,
Counting the years as seconds.
Sounding the atomic kisses of raindrops.
Sun warm, frost hard,
The seasons blend
To a pitch, a frequency,
A vibration.
Humming,
With the tone,
Of steadfast,
Patient,
Stone.

Weather curves and acid cracks,
Hold the song of larks,
The blood of fallen warriors past,
The sweet scent and hot tears of lovers,
The hollowed bones of winter.

Time slows,
The river ever flows.
Its tongue and voice,
Carry all that grows
Away.
No holdfast
Can stay the flow,
Nor stem the deepening argument,
That un-answers all questions,
Into the waste of the sea:
Drains the land
At last
Of Memory.