A time of dry and empty silence

Come stone
gently now down through your ages.
Down to a field of warm barley and soaring larks
whispering willows along a dying bourne.

She remembers the evening of river stars
each one slipping quietly towards the closing horizon.
She remembers the smell of rain drenched grass
and the cold crackling mornings of winter frosts.

Come stone
let us see your century shadows now.
Cast secretly before and after
the searcher by your side.

She remembers the leaf mould
gathering at her skirts.
And the lichen dripping wet
fresh again for another autumn day.

And where is the spring in all of this?
And where is the beginning of the new time?
Perhaps there was a time when spring never came.
Perhaps there was a time of dry and empty silence.

She remembers clear rivers rushing
and the blue and green of the fisher king.
She remembers the gush of the Swallowhead
fresh, wondrous and bountiful.

And where is the spring in all of this?
Perhaps there was a time of dry and empty silence.

Anon