Fiona Clark
The petrifying waterfall of Saint-Pierre-Livron
Caylus, Tarn-et-Garonne, France
Cascading from the rockface,
bone-dry, brittle, hard baked
in the limestone kiln of the escarpment.
Once, the crescendo of ice-melt,
the steady ripple of spring waters,
the silver piccolo chime of drips,
into a pool of liquid turquoise,
now there is only the chirruping of cicadas
in a dry hollow, cailloux, gravel, boulders,
hoard of the white-hot dragon of the gorge,
hulked against the cloudless sky,
claws clutching the parchment earth.
We stand, motionless as statues
gazing at the skeleton of a headless saint
or tatters of his miraculous shroud,
imagining a world without water.