The Rock

The river meandered around,

It stood still and silent; the rock.

The wind harassed with its whistles,

And pestered, yet it never spoke.

Not shaking an inch, in the storm,

Over a sloppy land it stood tall,

I gazed at it for stretched hours,

Waiting for it to roll and fall.

I aged and greyed and with time stooped,

Today It stands still, as it should,

The same shadows and the same shine,

Holding its head above green woods.