The Stone Lion
An Ode to a Lion Statue
Lion, you have a human face
wracked with the pains of a human
lifetime. And your creaturely eyes
that look to seek and never hide.
They have seen crazed nights, feverish
days, and dry years when your
hungry tongue thins to a scrape. Lion,
you have hungered for the petals that
rain down on your pelt, that cool
you and lull you into sleep, you fool.
Lion, you have dreamt of the hands
that chiseled and broke, chipped you out
of yourself and your brothers that
now sleep by your side, showered in pink.
Grey is a warmer colour, I like to think.
You’ve become content with stillness,
only if it is your own. The hunt never ends
and never begins, when your paws are
stuck in place. Frozen in prowl, born in it, too.
Petrified fear you were created to imbue.
Lion, you are not at home
in this world or a colder one. You
can’t survive on the coolness of blossoms
no matter how sweet their smell. Winter will
wash them off, turn them brown between
your stony paws, and they will die
as you will not. As will I.
Lion, I am not alive like you are,
though I have been gifted centuries so far.
As immortal poets know death best of all,
towards it, Lion, listen, you must always crawl.