A fist punches through the very earth, only to petrify as a standing stone. Another titan prevented from tormenting the world, perhaps?
Or is the stone not a fist, but one of the Fianna, stepping out of Kairos into Chronos, like old Oisin himself? Another hero bearing the burden of one cataclysmic choice.
Or is the stone neither Titan’s fist, nor Celtic hero, but the deep sleep of the last druid? One that could not bear to witness the passing of an age.
The stone does not say. The winter grasses rustle but tell nothing. And the surrounding trees tell nothing of what they’ve witnessed.
lichen and moss
another gray sky
devoid of birds
for Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt: Timeless #writephoto