Member-only story
Rock Of Ages — A Poem
In a far corner
Of Ancient New England
On the outskirts
Of a bucolic hamlet proud
Stands on the pinnacle
Of a hill primeval
A stolid cairn:
Hardy sentinel
Guards a sunken mound.
Its ways and means
Even the learned cannot tell
No tool or reasoned reckoning can break
The totem’s inscrutable spell.
Some say by native hand
It was hoist and hewn
A temple of forgotten rites
In praise of Sun and Moon.
Yet others claim
Long before the Indian came
Druids steeped in mystic lore
Sailed from Albion for Western shore
And sowed the seeds of religion old
To be reaped in the Age of Gold
Buried in the soil cold.
Regardless, the villagers say,
Will always stand the pillar grey
Relic of decadent decay —
Or, the harbinger of returning day
When olden ways
Shall again hold sway.
