IF THE STONES COULD TALK
THEY WOULD TELL TALES OF:
Human hands, paint covered, tracing elaborate lines in the dark places of the land - undulating swirls of bison and elk.
The tap-tap-tapping as one stone was shaped by another into a sharp point.
The outcrops and hillside growths of stone villages, slowly rising from the cliffs from whence they came - moulded into pockets of air, the dwellings of men.
The creeping of vines.
The chanting of monks, echoing in the walls.
The reflected sun, from the chalky white ground to the grapes up above. The grapes themselves ripening beautifully, as if they had nothing else to do in the world.
The swish and chuckle of a river, and a brief flash of a silver fish - a shadow on the river rocks below.
Lightning storms.
Silence.
Village festivals, celebrations, markets and days of joy.
And maybe they would talk of us - of me and you, and that moment of total bliss under a hail of fireworks.
