[Martin Elster]

Fliss, your sonnet (which I really enjoyed) reminded me of a poem I once wrote about the Kissing Stones.

A Rocky Affair

The Kissing Stones, part of the Wain Stones, are a natural sandstone outcrop. They have been weathered by the unrelenting weather up on Bleaklow, the largest mountain plateau in the Peak District National Park.

At last they meet again to kiss
after a split that seemed for good.
For eons they have longed for this.

Time stops as they anticipate
drawing close together. Whether
they ever will, no one can state

for certain. Not a thing ensues.
Their faces have begun to feel
as dry and coarse as gritstone. Clues

that something will occur are wanting
as Bleaklow’s flanks are short on flora.
Dunlins swirl in hundreds, taunting

the lovers for their wavering,
whose plight is bleaker than the land.
Perhaps these stones are savoring

this moment of expectancy.
Yet don’t they know rain, rough as scree,
will scour them till they cease to be?

Look at their eyes, so unaware
of the herb Robert growing near,
which knows more than this moonstruck pair.