Even the smooth stones ache
With stories of their own
In the shuddering light of day.
― Scott Hastie
Sprinkled stars
Apple blossoms strewn,
Swirl in eddies
Overhead
A slow spinning typhoon.
To note orientations
And notations
I need quaternions and interpolations;
The music of the spheres
Deaf to human ears,
Or at least, this generation.
Yet a stick in the ground
Tracks the sun round
For equinox and solstice,
We have machines
To complicate the scheme
Of seed time and harvest;
But I prefer to use
Earth as my cue
A simple twig
Plots
Ley Lines of tombs;
And I, with ancients,
To the radar disc
Attuned,
Struggle
To harpoon
The white flesh of the Moon.