Cefn Goch Poem by john appleby

White page written in red ink, a trembling hand misspelling stone.
A climbing wordsmith struggles here to articulate the lines.
Vague sentences hang from every page.
The previous author fought to handle the grainy texture,
his quill breaking repeatedly on the rough paperstone.

Little wonder his words make no sense today; loose paragraphs
peppered with lichen stars, abbreviated using heather devices.

I would rewrite the story in my own words if I could decipher
the opaque script.
Cefn Goch is an old language, like Cornish.
A dead tongue poured over by romantics and mystics.

Words no longer spoken must remain hidden in the stone vaults.
Remembered in the oozing cracks and weeping edges that carry
the story.
Perhaps I will tear out the faded pages and start again, writing
a new ending to an old tale, or singing the stone in my own voice.
Pitch perfect.