Flint

Cold in my hand

Flint vibrates

Echoes of long ago activity

 

Singing its enigmatic call

Mysteries latent

Inside.

 

Around its soft clay bed

Finessing and polishing

The centuries away

 

Flint breathes

 

In its natal slumber

Grey to the core

Yearning

To be rediscovered

Patiently hoping

To be lifted-

Useful once more.

 

Enveloped in mud

Ravens circle

Glinting on the surface

 

All those mysteries

 

Whose gnarled weathered hands

Spun the wool

Slashed the flesh

Lovingly fashioned it

For myriad occupations?

 

 

Harsh winds take it

Metal churns it

 

Rain purifies it

Sun bestows Flint’s Spark

Hand recharges microscopic atoms

 

Flint smiles

Once more.