The rock has locked itself away
Though red flags droop from sticks & red blazes slash trunks
Water has become the path
From a fashion for footholds a slow dripping upward
At the final haul up the scree the rock rots
Into dominoes sliding at your fingerholds
Aboriginal mud at the rock’s heart loosens in this early spring
Snow flurries settle on it and drift inward
At the top spruce close as kelp mask the drop
To the quarry and its deep water fresh with no outlet
Water silks down the rockface even in summer through
Heavy moss bright as cat eyes holding the face together
Under a bluestone plate at the crumbling wall-foot
Three white eggs like pin-mould or dice-dots
From here a bird’s flight dips to the corners
Of the landscape away from dog-howls at noon or valley- roar
There are holds on the land the land lessens with its distance
At its furthest point it reaches itself
Eyes strain to reach it reaching itself
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