Granite
Wild moors give us Granite.
Defying nature's cycle, underfoot predates time.
Breeze bringing rain, hail and snow
send hikers and ponies scattering as Autumn winds blow.
But the tors are different.
Giant soldiers raise up refusing to be beaten.
Granite glories in sunshine, exhaling exhaustive heat -
in frost, icicles march to mirror the rock's own beat.
They are part of a rhythm - unending.
This battalion has winking eyes and is warm to touch.
A steady Oak encourages life with protective branches but doesn't withstand the storm;
posthumously proffering scarred roots for spring growth is all.
Graceful soldiers abandoned by ancient Gods never fail.
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| Hound Tor in the snow. |
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