Niall OConnor: Rock

A rock . . .

well really the brow of a rock . . .

its 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

throughout my teenage years.

Beneath the arched viaduct it squatted

uncomplaining of the shafts of steel

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 reality

taking the time to be calm and listen

as I told it of my hurts and young confusions.

One Summer, I foreswore all others

and promised it my heart,

if it would only turn it to stone,

and though the Rock it listened,

I knew the answer without us having to speak;

I was being selfish

and it would have given all of its
great and brooding strength

to feel, just a little, of my pain.

Niall OConnor