This is an example of a not-particularly-good sestina. It's too repetitive, and doesn't vary the use of the end-words enough to keep the actual narrative fresh. But it was one of my early efforts... and in my defense, it does follow the form.

Sunlit rock near Dungannon, Va

I ran ahead – through rain-damp trees the stone
called out to me, pulled me off of the trail
that my father still walked on, bade me plant
my feet inside a warm circle of light
on its face, far above the soggy ground.
Soft rays of heat passed through branches to fall

gently on my back, and I knew that fall
would not lay jealous fingers on that stone
for months. Leaf-shadows spilled across the ground
onto the rock as I studied the trail,
and I marveled at how the sun’s sharp light
could make it appear a strange, jagged plant

jutting out of the earth, an arcane plant
for long-dead shamans. I let myself fall
back, sink into it; its presence was light
breaking through the carapace of my stone
spirit, and I forgot about the trail
where my father was walking, tied to ground

I had already tread… That pliant ground
held no more secrets for me. No mere plant
could call me off that rock, back to the trail
I’d abandoned, letting my father fall
behind, forsaking him for craggy stone
hewn by forgotten rivers and the light

of the same sun that long ago cast light
upon its rough surface, made holy ground
out of a chunk of common river stone
for some lost, mythic tribe too proud to plant
crops. The stone told me to let my life fall
away, to let my fitful mind to trail

off into myth, so I ignored the trail
nearby and instead pictured fires’ light
made in offering, last hunts before fall,
venison cooking while stag-bones were ground
to fine paste and mixed with a sacred plant
young braves used to gain union with the stone…

That trail was just a line etched in the ground,
with barely enough light to sustain plant
life until fall. Not alive, like that stone.