The giant chooses solitude on a limestone seat
overlooking the bay
resting bones of weathered limestone
bunches of ragwort for hair twisted with purple heather
delicate harebells and stitchwort her apron
toes roots squirming in quicksand dipping in tidal waters
her mind a boomerang scudding across silver clouds
returning with infinite thoughts.
She looks into our little minds
prising apart grey stone sees through cracks
people arguing in our flesh-and-blood lives
people arguing on screens
hears chitter-chatter drowning out birds
wishes we’d turn down the noise.
A butterfly flaps its wings
powerful as Heysham and the off-shore windfarm.
The giant keeps her knowledge of cause and effect
in a pouch full of wing-beats:
bombers plucked from the skies like gnats
between a thumb and forefinger.
She seems serene
but damage the land with a single thought
and you will feel her hurricane,
trees uprooting through limestone cracks
as she shakes thoughts like people from her caves.
Perhaps one day she will shrug us off and become truly alone
with only the fugue of the tireless sea beating
against her limestone throne.