A slimy bounty, I slept in a slide of silt.
Thick rivets of moss tucked me in
until plucked from dormancy
one November morning
when the Ribble’s tides stretched thin.
Stolen to another home, she stared at me.
“What’s in a stone?” she said.
Mud and memories.
Aeons’ emperies
In sediment steeped.
Particles of gnomic insight
Form my aorta
Of quietude deep.
Taken by Penwortham Bridge to Avenham
to the clarion blast of rallying flags and dissent,
I soaked in the march of zeitgeist in motion
absorbing the words of protest.
Re-crossing the river arrested by majesty,
a music magical crashing and bright,
cacophonous tone of water on stone
I shouted aloud “no longer alone!”
in a blissful arc was thrown
heavy with memories
splashing home.
* This poem was written on the 30th November 2011 following the pension protests in Preston.
mud and memories…love this
Lovely poem. I tried to write my own starting from the line “What’s in a Stone?” after being asked the question on a retreat once. I could never get it to work.This captures an event and the and the life of the stone beautifully.
Your words, where my childhood and adulthood meet. The memories of one and understanding of the other, only can be certain of which way round this is?