A Stone, A Bit of Bone

I sit quietly and alone on the ground, my back against the ancient stone of the abbey wall. It's cooling, comforting on this warm, still day.

To my left the abbey gardens are dressed in a finery of colorful blossoms. To my right the ancient churchyard with weathered stones, the characters and symbols long since worn away leaving questions unanswered. What secrets, I wonder, are lost to us?

I munch on a piece of course bread that was baked right here in the abbey kitchen and with it, some but delightfully flavored cheese. I wash it down with a flask of tea.

It is so long since I've known such relaxation … I take pen to paper.

A Stone, A Bit of Bone.

The past lies beneath our feet,
A piece of stone,
A bit of bone,
An impression in the ground,
A mound.

All it takes is patience
And careful observation.
Digging often in the heat,
In dry and parching dust,
The past clings to itself,
Does not come easily
Into the light of day.
The earth protects its secrets.
They elude our
Picking,
Brushing,
Scratching,
Scraping,
And often, even then,
The secrets lie
Just beyond our reach,
Beyond our sight,
Beyond our ability to know
As if they were our own.
They're not ours, you see,
These secrets of the past--
Although we've built upon them
And learned from scraps revealed.

It's not our time.
They're hidden from our sight,
Revealing only what they will,
Enough to tantalize,
To keep us digging,
Searching,
Hoping,
Wondering.

And so they lay, these secrets,
In the shadows,
Out of sight,
Beneath Earth's protective cloak
Waiting until
A stone is turned,
A bone revealed,
A story finally told.

Vi Jones
©April 10, 2005