The reckless cliffs of Catterline Bay. . .
They reassess their static eruptions with a tendentious rejection of the evolving gateways of time.
Their cave mouths are openings into a prehistoric retention of volcanic movements.
Land is formed through geological convulsions of renegade shifts and episodes of pain.
Its geophysical boundaries are shaped by the shattered nerve-endings of catastrophic outcomes.
Its features are pushed through terrible motions to points of ultimate stillness, projections in defiance of numerical clock-scapes.
And there they stand, braced against the cavalcades of the mauling oceans.
Heroically defined by their passive acceptance of the savage contours of permanent torment.
The Crawton Waterfall breaches the sudden edge of the narrow cove by the braes of Fowlsheugh (The Ravine of the Birds).
It is revealed by the parting darkness – by the sun that causes the sky to collapse with elations of light.
Proof that the sun is your god without you knowing it – that it replenishes and destroys the fitness of life with omnipotent firmness and a finite radioactive grip of the core resources.
Proof, also, that gods must die, like shadows of passions dwindling under the assaults of the bitter truths that engulf them.
Other stars, other planets, will evolve in unknown places – cosmic harbingers of new prospects of creation – emissaries of cause and effect.
New life forms will undertake the genetic conflux of their continuous arrival..
New gods will be worshipped. New laws obeyed.
New rebels will challenge the ideologues of the useless arbiters who impose their stunted will against the counsel of aesthetes.
All of them will die in their abundance like diminishing candles in the cover of darkness.
New waterfalls will form over the edges of cliffs on other planets.
While all the while, confined to our diminutive plane, we will know and feel nothing.