Lichens

Pale-green and black and bronze and grey, In broken arabesque and foliate star, They cling, so closely grown Upon the sombre stone That one would deem they are As much a part thereof as the design Is part of some old porcelain from Cathay— Some vase of Tang or Ming Patterned with blossoms intricate and fine And leaves of alien spring Exempt forever from the year's decay. Old too they seem and with the stones coeval— Fraught with the stillness and the mystery Of time not known to man; Like runes and pentacles of a primeval Unhuman wizardry That none may use nor scan.