You are strong firm granite.
Rough quarried, you still
hold your own edges.
Your fire goes deep, only
splinters of surface crystals
catching the fickle sun.

Weatherproof, all but invincible,
it would take carborundum
to smooth you out.
I know how; I lie over you,
a coverlet of soft moss,
wind-patterned grass.

We grow children:
delicate harebell,
tough scented heather,
bluest of blue speedwell.
They lift their heads, take in
storm, rain, sun, clear air.

Even knowing their parentage
their beauty, their differences,
strike me with awe.

© Patricia Leighton, Bromsgrove, UK

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