That mossy stone there, man-shaped with such care, blindly, it stares at me, and everyone else. Proud gaze, unaware,  eroding green eyes and hair, yet somehow it stares, returned gazes for 300 years. And now it sits here: a stone’s new home. Uncertain ancient leer, frequented, and alone, this spectacle is skeptical of ever going home to that stone dead carver, that human he calls father, long buried under fodder who shaped him at such cost, sunken and decayed like  me in one