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.
This ancient hearth! With the muse of history. Thanks for sharing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderful poem, Dr. My friend is researching pre Clovis sites and I am sure he would love this too