Like a host, awaiting a nameless guest,
my seed has a purpose of its own.
A blue spirit being has come to rest,
in the sandless soil as I was sown.

Life, distance, everything is worn by time,
as our forebears shape a giant rock
which I - being alive - am bound to climb
to leave in turn my heartbeat at the top.

Buffeted by storms and calm's quiet rage.
The winds of fear and self-doubt come in gusts.
Perhaps these howl and sweep through every age
to tear me away from my grip; your trust?

You a ledge, over which I strain to peek,
as this child gently nudges at my feet.

[Sonnet from a collection by S.C.N. Pockley]

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