Stone Shadows - A drabble
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
-T. S. Eliot, Ash-Wednesday
He has never much liked stone.
Cobbles he does not mind, nor shingles, nor a piled wall. But the bones of the Earth can be harsh, and dark things linger where the ground is hard.
He knows what the young grey one from the West calls him, but gathering moss has never been how Tom lives. There are fairer things to be found. There are songs to be sung, rain to be felt, trees to tend, years to watch as they flit like dragonflies. Others can mind the stones - they do not drink or breathe, and their shadows are long.
Hop along and review, my hearties! Rana now is waiting!