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Slow, seeps the stone,
under a ripple,
on the water.
Washed afresh in foam,
where a trickle,
leaked an augur.

Prophecy, was cast. Spun grave,
in skipping pebbles,
prone to fall.
Like, long-established waves,
crash,
‘gainst steadfast rebels,
alas,
grown ashore.

Solace, only found, in each bounce,
that lonely lingered, ‘cross the lake.
Until, their mounds, were numbers count, on lowly fingers, born of fate.

© poormansdreams

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