Hollow Rock and Me
here in the Piedmont we can forget streams—
unless we have to cross them,
where we live, cities and houses coalesce our attention,
and a whole world can snake away from us
down a treed valley rarely visited by people,
I enter that world near a bridge,
and I take my life in my hands, and in my feet,
as I travel but a 100 yards along a busy highway
with car after car whizzing by,
each driver intent on his rush hour world,
I slip into the woods and then head up the creek,
spider web after spider web reach for me
and tangle in hair and clothes,
early on an old stone dam hints of an earlier dream
that willed itself to be,
upstream remnants of an even earlier fish channeling
that helped feed native peoples,
on the other side of the creek old sandstone cliffs
remember long ago currents who hollowed their rock,
the stream here long sluggish pools with near flat ground to the side,
till rocks and rapids start to appear
as the Fall Line rears itself up,
wild iris first appear, a hint of the mountains far upstream,
a kingfisher appears as if he needs the rising land to make him rise,
hidden truths can be easily accessible
if only the will appears to find them.
by Henry H. Walker
July 16, ‘15
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