My Silent Witness

You, my peerless outcrop
born of millennia
against all elements you resist;
yet this relentless northerly depression
will, in ten thousand years,
cut even you beyond belief;

Many will trespass in your shadow
their footsteps pooled with
unseasonal grey;
rivulets in war-horse tracks swollen;
overgrown with weathered weeds
that survive despite brushed
near horizontal;

Respectful travellers will ask
you bear them directions and
piercing the low slung clouds you
steer them to villages sparse;
adrift, in the blurred valleys beneath;

In reflective guidance
with the palest moonlight against your glacial,
dark scarred skin you skim
a salient path to where they may rest;

They plan journeys homeward
over half pan horizons
back to guest house, shower and bed;
you remain my silent witness
until the sun breaks through swaddling clouds
and those lost in the heather
are found dead.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011