A million waymarks point inland, 
relics of meltwater, volcanic rock, 
martyred monks, tarmac B‐road.

I rest beside a rusty bus‐stop.
An outcrop, interwoven greenery,
clogs the plateau. Gathered tumps
of stony loam, accumulated gravel
and cobbles, form statues 
aligned in a grid. 

Every song
every prayer
every dream
is yours.