I climbed up.
The grit slashed
the pale skin
on my knuckles.
I held on-
to the nose-bridge,
pressed down
onto the cheekbone,
rested my hands
on the forehead,
looked at the sky
reflected in the rain-
-pool worn
into the rough pate
of the stone.
I rested there,
a temporary statue,
relishing the touch
of a dark moon,
newly inhabited.
poem and photograph (c)2000 Dominic Rivron
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* cello, guitar, double bass