Toad Stone

Rising on the skyline, cold stone,
A toad crouched in the landscape
Watching the traffic snake across the moor.
This is a sacred rock, perhaps always was,
A watching place, perched on the corner
Of the world, balanced on the cosmos,
Quarried by wind, rain and time’s ruthless hand.

I see a hunter through the haze
Stood on the rock, a slender figure,
A worn hazel shaft in his hand,
The sun sliding off flint,
Eyes piercing the ancient shadows
Like a nocturnal being, every movement
Monitored with lizard-like precision.

Is he watching me? Through the shimmering
Haze of the moor, stained purple with flowers
And ringing with hypnotic lark song,
Does he observe my progress
Up the Old Road? Through
The red-veiled dream, can he peer
Through time and space, The Hunter,
Gazing down through all eternity.

I wish to reach out and touch his mind,
See the land untainted through his eyes,
Hear the hum of creation, the poems
Of calling and murmurs of making
In the stones and trees: I long for
The feel of the primeval wind on my face
Like the smoothness of flint,
To taste his freedom like wild honey
And dance the dance of ages
With the bees and beasts
Above Toad Stone.