If ‘hot’ rocks appear tough, it may be because of a difficult childhood:
My appearance is coarse and my manner intrusive –
My upbringing’s largely to blame:
A childhood as magma just isn’t conducive
To getting oneself a good name.
My youth was mis-spent: you can see all around
All the rocks that I’ve metamorphosed.
They’re visible now: they were underground,
But the weather has left them exposed.
I’ve cooled off as I’ve aged, though it’s taken forever;
Now all of my crystals display
Their shapes on my surface. It’s now my endeavour
To slow down their rate of decay.
Up here on the moor, all alone with my thoughts,
I feel that I’m cracking up fast . . .
I’m breaking down into clay minerals and quartz . . .
I reckon . . . this line . . . is my last . . .