Boulders

dumped by an irresistible force

a primeval behemoth

that has since disappeared

(like T. Rex)

Bones strewn across a field

remnants of an ancient battle

Covered in lichen and moss

Frozen in time

seemingly still

almost impossible to budge

Round, triangular, jagged

Old letters

(there are only so many directions

calligraphy can take)

The man who steals

should be made to transport one

a couple of inches

and then asked

if he wants to steal

again

Only the hermit

knows how to lift one

with his little finger

And the gnats

that bounce on the wind

as if it was solid ground

or gravity had gone out of fashion

In places

they support a bench

or a bridge

and then they submit

gracefully

Then it is we

who put the weight

on them

They sometimes

form part of a path

or allow themselves

to be spray-painted

I have seen them

as the base for a cross

by a river

But most of the time

they are a canvas

for the sun’s fluctuating mood

a mappa mundi

a projector screen

on which faces like clouds

witness the passing of centuries

Like us

they sleep

and then all you can see

are the almond-shaped

indentations

of their closed eyes

and the narrow

moustaches

of their upturned mouths

When we sleep

our senses are momentarily

suspended

we cease to see and speak

(to pass judgement)

we become

the base for a cross

a stepping stone

dappled light

our own memory

Blanched stone

An expression

for others to interpret

We are defined

(we define ourselves)

We are spoken

(we do not speak ourselves)

We take our place

in the dictionary

the richest lexicographical

resource

in the history of the universe

Verb, noun, adjective

What we did

what we did it to

what it was like

A chosen few

are prepositions

otherwise language

cannot position itself

At the end of it all

we will sing a chorus

in which matter

is black ink

light the parchment

and only those who loved

will be able

to hear it

Jonathan Dunne

Ostritsa-Selimitsa, Pentecost 2024