Poem I've been trying to write

ADRIGOLE BALLAD

Lichens lean toward
the sun in Adrigole
like hands,
shielding my eyes
from finding fossils
that chatter in their rock beds
about who and where
they were

in the era
to come, I will sleep
like them
in Hungry Hill, near
the place where water
knocks stones
like your breath in a
harmonica; sliding
out the throat and
tumbling into
form

I will sleep
to catch the thing
the brown-scruffed pony
will see across
the road:

the flint within
your chest
that sparks before
you play,
as sharp as blue hydrangeas
that prick the mountainside.