I want to be a standing stone

by David Oakley-Hill
(Luton, Beds)

I want to be a standing stone
watching from the hill
sciatica suspended
no need to sit at will

Once buried ‘neath a fine oak tree
inert again I rise
and all across the landscape
I gaze with stony eyes

The couples think they are alone
I know their frisky ways
no flicker of emotion
my granite face betrays

I hear the lambs’ cries grow less shrill
see purple heather fade
brief snow drips from the gallow limbs
the ground deprived of shade

but in the rocky crevices
invertebrates asleep
and deep below, the rabbits
don’t know life’s in trouble deep

I want to keep my counsel
with the sky in which I shone
I’m dying to know what happens, long
after my flesh has gone

I want to be a standing stone
watching from the hill
till weather holes my textured head
and little puddles fill

I want to be a standing stone
all-seeing from the hill
till Jack falls, and I witness
the new birth of Eve – or Jill