Rock of Ages
My face is weathering like the wall
that salt and sand erodes.
As seasons pass like scudding clouds
and mosses find footholds.
How hard the stone compared to me
who chips and cracks so easily,
with time and tide, the ebb and flow,
the school of knocks, the tales of woe.
And yet I feel alright with that;
the lines, the furrows all,
as on the rock I place my back
and hear the seagulls call.
Copyright © Philip Stuckey 2016