On the headland is an absence
where it fell some winter night
between here and childhood,
and the sea's still fizzing
over a bruise that will not heal.
A finger would rock it,
Bendigeidfran's stone.
My ear pressed to it's flank could hear
the footfall of a storm far out at sea
long before the frown of it darkened the beach.
It purred in wind, was warm against my back
with all the summer in it.
Apple out of legend,
slingstone of Brans rage against Ireland.
Or so my father said.
Taken from 'Rocking Stone' which appears in the poem sequence 'The King of Britains Daughter' by Gillian Clarke.
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