Stonemason

You do not know me behind this stone.

The bone-chiselled lines reduce like chimes,
Repeat the solemn gist in fading choruses.
And what an audience.
The stones in rows stand fixed and flexed
Like fathers watching.
Upright as towers hammered into the earth
The wind will still dishevel them.
What are these, then, to the boy who gazes?
In whose memory will the dead endure?
The rock-etched words labour against wind and time,
Command like mimes.

Who would be a stonemason?


© Rhett Talley 2005-2012 - For Mario