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.
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
* This poem was written on the 30th November 2011 following the pension protests in Preston.