Where Water Meets Stone

I stepped where sunlight scarce would tread, where stone and water softly wed.
A hollow carved by time’s own hand, a hush more present than the land.

No silence, this—a breathing still. Where shadows clung with ghostly will.
The walls were damp with ancient tears, and the air was thick with mineral years.

Above, the water whispered low, a silken fall, a silver show.
Not thunder, but a drifting thread, that shimmered where the daylight bled.

Each drop, a quiet offering made, to pools where light and stone cascade.
Suspended mid-descent, they gleamed, not splashed, but hovered, soft and dreamed.

I stood, dissolved in shadowed grace, the outer world a distant place.
Thoughts faded in that gentle space, where time and silence interlace.

Then light—one shaft—a golden spear, cut through the mist that lingered near.
A rainbow, fragile, curved its way through softened hues of light and spray.

Not bold, not brash—a breath, a sign, that vanishes if crossed the line.
A quiet arc of spectral lace, a secret held by time and place.

No grandeur here, no roaring call, but peace within a water’s fall.
The kind of beauty that recedes, unless you come with quiet needs.

No signs, no crowds, no grand parade, just sound, and stone, and softened shade.
And as the sun began to slide, the rainbow bowed, its grace denied.

I lingered there, and let it be. That magic, brief, was gift to me.
For in the hush where light is sown, I found the soul where water meets stone.