The Caves at Ronda

Where the tall rock curtains itself in folds,
Four strokes down and one across in black:
The tally marks by which you once assessed
Days long since inseparably old.
And drawings: an archer drawing his bowstring back,
Goats, deer, a fish – perhaps a shopping list,
Or a request to those in charge of deer.

Shard and bone people, where you left your bowls
And built your fires among those arcades, that
Blackness on the wall – that chimney – lingers.
You snapped off stalactites to make your tools:
After four millennia, the stumps are flat
Except for tiny regrown stone fingers
Pointing at the floor: they were here.