Apex of a tor:
ancient history.
A hunter, gatherer
leaves, stones
pottery heads
rolled up paper
in jam jars
labelling the findings
of his cyclical ascent
Over the tide of years
he grows older
the tor grows taller
stone roots push up
he builds his cairn
until he is beneath it
We find his scrawl,
messages illegible.
Scoured museum
of the windswept zenith;
what does this little
world still have to say
for itself?
