Photo courtesy Diego Meozzi/Stone Pages

Stone Dancing

I walk field
and stream,
each a world,
to search for
dancing stones.
Hollow palms
and pockets fill
with tiny stones
that grow to dolmans
because I grow
small enough to see.

At night, pockets
emptied inside-out
bring day's brightness
in, like hopes
of secrets spoken.
The mystery
that shrouds
Kenmare, Kilclooney
shrouds the stones
I hold, to dance
the ritual praise
of molten cores.

Mountain peak or pebble,
child and mother,
stand like dancing maidens
changed to stone
and shout silently,
at rest in their own shade

My table lamp preserves
but will not tell
of heat or winds
that sculpt the slopes
of any standing stone
and each found treasure,
lifted from its source,
shrinks in solitude
upon my shelves
to sit in sadness
not unlike my own

Yet on earth's floor
where all things change
and have a chance to speak,
stones may still dance
in light and shadow.

© Crane 2002

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