Saturday, August 27, 2011

Bright Stones

River racing, foam flecked
down the valley, speckled
sun bursts, shivers of light,
a gurgling arm’s length,
kaleidoscopic touch away.

Out of the ecstatic chaos
a pool, still as glass, revealed
a glistening hoard of stones,
a personal treasure trove,
no one else had ever seen.

One sleeve roll later,
a freezing plunge unveiled
a handful of smooth, round
shapes glistening in my palm,
rich beyond my wildest dreams.

As if a cloud passed overhead,
their lights faded, colours paled.
They lay there dull as mud,
bloodless. Yet, in spite of it,
the vision of what had been,
could be conjured again,
would not melt away.

I felt their warmth press
against my thigh. I heard
my bright stones sing. I felt
their secret glow.

‘What pretty stones!’ my mother lied.
‘Here’s a tin to keep them in,’
she sighed, but I insisted
on the bone-white bowl
centred on my window sill,
knowing if my will
was strong enough,
the magic lingered still.

Cupped in my hand,
cold tap full on,
they flickered, coats
of lacquer failed to lustre,
licks of paint gave way
to dust and disappointment.

‘Look Dad! Look!’
I wake with a start.
another tiny hand
is reaching out.
My daughter dipping
through the mirror,
plucking out a handful
of bright stones.
‘What pretty stones!’
Words echo down the years,
but how can I explain
this sudden surge of tears.

1 comment:

  1. Anonymous9:15 AM

    I love this. I also collect stones for no other reason that they look so appealling when they are wet and shiny Beryl