Out
      of
      the
      Stone
      Age
     
    
   
   
    
     
      One
      of
      her
      stone-babies,
     
    

    
     
      he
      took
      three
      weeks
      to
      birth,
     
     
      was
      left
      behind
     
    

    
     
      in
      the
      cold
      Arctic
      north
     
    

    
     
      in
      a
      sculpture
      garden.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Touched
      by
      northern
      lights
     
    

    
     
      glanced
      in
      his
      smooth
      stone
      contours
     
     
      grooves
      she
      grooved
     
    

    
     
      by
      chiselling
      into
      his
      garnet
      crystals
     
     
      symbols
      of
      the
      southern
      cross.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      She
      softened
      his
      skin
     
    

    
     
      with
      fine
      then
      finer
      diamond
      discs,
      wooly
      muffs
     
     
      and
      tin
      oxide
     
    

    
     
      til
      he
      shone
      -
      not
      with
      mere
      frippery
      -
     
    

    
     
      but
      like
      a
      jewel
      of
      protest.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Chunks
      cracked
      off
      her
      heart.
     
    

    
     
      To
      give
      up
      her
      infant
      -
      a
      mark
      of
      her
      time
      -
     
     
      to
      driving
      snows
     
    

    
     
      and
      empty
      smashing
      bottles
      lobbed
     
    

    
     
      from
      the
      hands
      of
      discontent.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Signs
      of
      southern
      squalor
     
    

    
     
      old
      tires,
      plastic
      bags
      and
      rusting
      cans
      litter
     
     
      streams,
      rock
      shores
     
    

    
     
      and
      in
      some
      indigenous
      veins
      is
     
    

    
     
      spent
      alcohol
      and
      southern
      desires.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Bones
      and
      hides
      don't
      litter
      greed.
     
    

    
     
      Stones
      carved
      or
      stacked
      were
      simple
      signs
     
     
      to
      the
      old
      and
      wary.
     
    

    
     
      Some
      can
      see
      the
      passing
      of
      an
      age.
     
    

    
     
      Some
      are
      already
      blind
      to
      the
      stone.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Leaving
      your
      mark
      is
      erosion.
     
    

    
     
      Inside
      and
      out,
      great
      gorges
      span
      opposing
      eras
     
     
      of
      stone
      and
      fuel.
     
    

    
     
      Iridescent
      puddles
      shimmer
      with
      spills
     
    

    
     
      and
      circle
      her
      baby
      in
      the
      garden.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Denise
      Reiser
     
    
   
   
    
     
      [9]
     
    
   
   
    
     
      {e}