Their father is made of rock
A mountain of unflinching
Against their hands-
Clawing like wind,
Pleading as rain-
Slipping down his unmoving
No hugs can scale.
He is a timeless mass of solid
The whole world loose around him.
Rooted in their horizon,
Too large to comprehend, too old
If they could only see him at night-
He moves in the dark to their bedsides.
Their sleeping breath
Sweeping in around his heavy watchfulness
Softening his harsh edges.
If they could only see the caves he harbours
Their first pictures kept all these years
Caveman drawings, stickmen holding hands
Marked in permanence more precious
Than every chunk of coal he’s had dug from his seams.