Face of a Grandfather Clock

Stands for centuries, looking down
Everyone looks up upon his face
He sees all that comes before him and answers all who come before him
The inner heart turning constantly
unwavering
unstopping

Then . . . .
Came the flood

Waters rage and destroy his house
He is swept away in the currents
The great waters carry to deepest jungle
No light to shine, no hearth to warm
No one to gaze upon his face but the birds
Now he is home to insects and rodents
Still . . . yet still he turns unwavering
Broken and battered
Rusted, splintered, cracked
But still unwavering
Vine and branch engulf him
He becomes heart in the forest
Waiting . . . waiting still

Through the trees, men come
Cutting and burning, sawing and clawing
They come upon his face
There in the ground
They circle around him
Staring and stalking, gazing and galking
His hands move, they have not stopped
They remove him from his new home
Take him back to their camp
and use his face to kindle their fire