Poem By Dr. Charles A Stone
There is only silence on the footpath
I have traced to this ancient hearth -
the hammering of stone upon stone
has faded, just as the reds and yellows
of autumn leaves fade each winter.
Still, I can hardly believe that
these flint stones are the only traces
of their presence in these woods,
waiting to be discovered as I survey
grid by grid the surrounding ground.
Footprints would have vanished long ago,
flesh devoured and bone turned to dust,
but there might be echoes still in the hills
if I only knew how to listen or maybe
the fog is the smoke of campfires.
Perhaps, if I look closely enough I will see
their reflection in the polished surfaces
of the dart points and drills and needles
they have left behind, a meager legacy
from better steward's of the land than I.