In the company of Ancient Men with grey hair,
Rolling past their granite fingers reaching,
Stretching so far and fare,
These Ancients shadow trees and field,
Breathing the scent of pine and telling,
Whispering soft and yet to yield,
The sun’s strength to their spiny back.
The Ancients lift and separate the sky and earth,
Basking hard faces to the morning light,
Embracing pain of new birth.
Time is all the Ancients keep in silent sound,
Sheltering buzzing things and birds so sweet,
Singing of Creation and all that’s lost and found.