poetry diary

Fallen from my mother’s arms;
shaped by others’ ways,
I lay,
and touched despair.

Briefly among my brothers, 
gathered tall in towers –
chill power,
upheld by pride. 

Holding against men and arms,
we stilled their fights
with might;
frustrating claims. 

Abandoned to lichen and dust;
crumbled and crossed by frosts;
all lost,
the crowd moves on. 

I have become a feeling stone;
this history’s too strong;
I long,
but all have gone. 

——-

At Rievaulx Abbey.