The Labyrinth's tendrils

special little glade of riverine forest on Lions river, the labyrinth and graveyard there

The Labyrinth’s Tendrils


The rolling stones
come to rest
in a sacred place,
shaded glade, roaring river
and gathered moss

Fern fronds whisper
gnarled root fables of Sisyphus
in the cool morning air
cicadas set the tempo,
kicking down through the gears

Who were they?
Or, are they?
Manicured graveyard at dusk,
and where are they headed
I wonder, wandering?
Nowhere?
Perhaps I am the one?
Who is lost?