The below poem is taken from “Crossing Time” a collection of poems about the Pixies of Dartmoor
The Boulder in the RoomBuy “Crossing Time” by Susan Taylor
This house has an uncommon boulder
neither in nor out of doors,
but spanning both.
You could fancy there’s a threshold there,
not necessarily to the normal outside –
a link to the valley
where all the boulders ring
with half heard cadences,
just as they did when trees formed
a full cape for the spirits born of forest
and no man dare to tear the branches down.
We are left with just their shimmering garlands
around the faces of the water-holes
we’ve ripped out of the sky.
Let’s not be strict on when the other time was,
for it was long ago, and still is,
if you care to rest your head up on that rock,
shut your eyes and slumber
against its old grey. You can hear
the layers of dreams, gone hard,
begin to soften.
An image may strike you like an axe,
so you jump a whole life in your sleep.
Swearing that you should be dead,
you cross back the threshold
and thank your lucky stars.
But also you remember
how the rock went through you
and take care to sit by it often,
as it curls up in the front wall,
like a wolf asleep.
It is a head of creature earth –
the eye of some forgotten storm,
Susan Taylor; Crossing Time