The Rock

A rock . . .

well really the brow of a rock . . .

it's heart lay deep and hidden,

but when I lay my cheek against it

in the heat of the summer, it cooled

and I could feel the great primeval thump of its heart

comforting me, when nothing else was understood.

I clutched this great rock;

my only constant in a life of changes,

while the earth itself, with me holding on tight,

flew at increasingly careless speeds,

through my teenage years.

Beneath the arched viaduct it squatted,

uncomplaining of the shafts of steel

driven deep, and the weight of the stone it carried;

my teenage weight, of little importance.

It was always there when I came,

in dream or even in reality,

taking the time to be calm and listen,

as I told it of my hurts and confusions.

One Summer, I foreswore all others

and promised it my heart

if it would only turn it to stone,

but though the rock listened

I knew its answer without it having to speak.

I was being selfish,

and it would have given all of its great strength

to feel,

just a little,
of my pain.

©Copyright Niall OConnor