One wonders of the hands that refined it;
Layers of rough hewn stone
Supporting chiseled blocks,
Woven together, offset,
To stand the test of time.
The formation rises on either side,
Into a dark pool of placid water.
Walls straight and true,
Save an intricate arch,
Neither Romanesque nor Gothic,
Something in between...
Keystone takes the weight of all other stones,
Safe passage made possible
For those who would travel underneath,
Allowing the water
To move silently through.
Vines cling to rock in an errant pattern,
Gnarly trunks growing untended for years,
Cold stone made warmer by its presence.
Canopy of centenarian trees spread their leaves above,
Wild and unruly,
Keeping the alcove
All but hidden from view.
while chilling in their black abyss,
Peacefully evoking thoughts of days gone by ~
Who has traversed these waters,
Gliding on a small boat?
What was their purpose?
Were love and passion enabled?
Was escape the means which it brought?
Transported, transfixed, I gaze at the scene.
Cathedrals built in days of yore,
We are awed by their intention,
Raised to the Glory of God,
Yet do we think on how they were built,
By poor men, by hungry souls,
Over the centuries of effort,
what pain was wrought?
Only the passing breeze will ever know,
Fleeting on the wings
That brought her.
(Photo by Jenna Douglas Simeonov)