Rik George writes

Stone Man

White pebbles are rolling 
in the brook by my plinth. 
A sparrow is muttering 
in the orchard above me 
as daybreak reddens 
the snows on the peaks. 
I’ve been here since the masons 
quarried my granite 
and the sculptor shaped 
my man’s semblance 
and fixed me here 
on this plinth by the brook. 
I weary of standing. 
Come, frost fingers, 
and pry at my cracks. 
Sand on the wind, 
wear at my stone. 
I would slough this shape, 
I would crumble and roll 
to the stream that laps 
at the base of my plinth. 
I want to travel
with the river pebbles.
 
 Turkic Stone Man, Altai Tavan Bogd National Park, Mongolia