Response: "Put them in your mouth": desperately seeking kinships
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.
