In the absence of formwork,
A beauty rises, unbidden.
Gravel, sand, clay—
A trinity of dust and stone.
Pounded down, layer by layer,
Earth surrendering to force,
Shaped not by hands
But by the weight of the world itself.
A rugged edge, a broken tooth,
A fissure filled with shadow,
A murmur of ochre,
A vein of rust, an ember of gold.
The wall sings in silence,
Stoic, unrepentant.
It stands, unpainted, unvarnished,
Stripped bare to the bone.
The wind tests its resolve,
The rain softens its skin.
The sun brands it with fire,
The hail tattoos it with rage.
And still, it stands.
The rock of our home,
The cradle of our children,
The bones of our shelter.
In its scars, the story lingers.
In its lines, the history hums.
No architect’s hand, no craftsman’s touch—
Just time, just pressure, just fate.
It does not beg to be perfect.
It simply is.
iiling@cloudsontour.com
11 Jul 2020Humbled and thrilled that you are reading! Lockdown with pen and paper here too.
Shalini
20 Jun 2020Ii Ling,
I simply LOVE reading your adventures and this wonderful journey you and the boys are on. Sending you much love, thank you for sharing your stories 🙂
Much love from us in Lockdown London !