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• 1 2025-05-05T21:34:53+00:00 Response: "Put them in your mouth": desperately seeking kinships 3 the stones remain plain 2025-06-06T15:55:52+00:00
  
  The Stones
  I empty my pockets of stones
  I collected at the beach, Brighton beach
  In the rolling fog and brilliant breaks of late March sun
  I have never seen so many stones
  I dig my hands into the smooth mass
  Alternately warm and cool
  As some rocks hold heat
  And others are the cool emptiness of centuries
  and I can not find the bottom where stones end and sand begins
  but I feel water and it tells me
  the water line is much higher than what we can see as the shore
  I spot one with a hole worn clear through
  A hag stone
  I take it up in my fist
  Holding it, discerning what magic it holds, I peer through the hole out across the English channel and I imagine I am looking back through time
  I slip it into my pocket
  In the distance, the venerable old pier
  With her lights and gaudy colours
  The arcade beckons with its games of chance
  And ultimately disappointment
  As the incessant ringing of machines and bells
  The modern carney’s bark
  All designed to relieve me of my money
  And leave me at once exhilarated and empty
  And as I exit, I slip my hand into the pocket
  Where the stone assures me with the warmth absorbed over a millennia of
  English summers
  It remains
  The stones remain.