The tide withdraws and leaves the basalt bare,
where quartz and chert support the ancient load;
a single footprint cuts the wet grey stair,
and marks the track the mortal rider rode.
No softer drift conceals the open code;
along the seam where southern surges blow,
the iron rim prints deep upon the road
a passing force the granite cannot know:
the stone retains the pressure though the tides return and flow.

No circuit claims the silence of the seam,
nor stores the friction of the passing tread;
the matrix holds the pattern of the theme
but keeps no local image of the dead.
The lattice does not mourn what has been shed;
it simply bears the structural remains
of every shear the oceanic bed
has driven through the folded Ordovician grains:
the interval stays open where the residual light still drains.

The rider turns and climbs the weathered rise,
past tea-tree twisted by the southern gale;
the derailleur clicks beneath the open skies,
the mortal stride resumes the measured trail.
No phantom voice completes the broken tale,
nor seals the fracture with a borrowed grace;
the headland keeps its cold, tectonic scale,
indifferent to the temporary face:
the stone remains a stone, the matrix holds the empty place.