They carved the rock as though they
were its creator, hauled its calves
across hills and valleys, raised
them on the plain for centuries
to see and on them build
mists and legends of cyphers
binding and loosing the sun.
Is this pebbled faith I carry
an anchor or a millwheel,
foundation or faltering?
They set a boulder to blot life
from the garden, light from the tomb.
When it was rolled away you spoke
her name into the morning like dew.
over the water 