One time while on a beach in Penzance,
throwing stones into the Atlantic,
my friend told me that if I ever chance

upon a stone that fits within my grip
to such an extent that the need to throw
it out towards the buoys and distant ships

is outweighed by need to keep it close
within my clutch, to press my clumsy thumb
against its cold, ancient indifference—

then that’s the stone I need to bring back home
to place onto my cluttered writing desk,
something to grip when the words fail to come,

to reassess my approach to the task,
to contemplate that no thown stone will ever
hit hard enough to put the wave at risk.

The stone itself is formed by the endeavour
of countless breakers crashing to the shore.
I clutch mine tightly, trying to remember

the sound of stones and mountains being born.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Feb 27, 2012 @ 01:16:59

    I like the way the descriptive narrative runs through this poem. It has a pleasing rhythm.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 1,501 other followers

%d bloggers like this: