the dawn stone was white
with white writing
in hearts and flowers
there were blessings and blossoms

the mature stone was grey
bell-weathered, upright
the black angular writing
cut stark in the sun

the old stone was roughed-up
and cracked, had seen
the trial of years and
hard winters, splittings,
soft pieces flaked at its base

the morning stone, off-white,
was rounded, sculptured
had a sash of blue-green 
silk tied - the words were
smooth and bright

the way-stone pointed
the road and read
miles behind and
miles yet to go - it wrote
of worn leather, gave the names
of cities

the rosetta stone, the stone
of learning, scripted
knowledge on its faces,
poured words, soundless,
was a weight, hefted

the bright stone, light-white
was placid, ringed
with roses, spoke softly
to the mountains, whispered
words of home

the way-stone pointed
the way down from high
places to gullies and
ledges, to the darkness
under wood, the mid-
way of the lost foot

the noon-day stone showed the city
at its worst, spoke
carvings and craftings
wrote high buildings
against the sky

the stone of ivory
in the afternoon
rang to the sound of bells
there were smiles
and hands - people
clustered at its mass

the evening stone, up ahead
is shapeless, too far
to see, its words
cannot be heard

the night stone beyond
is lost in hills of
memory - it marks where
the road ends
and the next begins - it speaks
in volumes

there sundown beckons, promising
serenity and quiet
lappings of the sea
on white shores, where

the sails are unfurled
and the boat's beak
turns to unknown
Norths where we live
by the rudder
and move with the wind

our words water-written
and wise
ready to begin

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