Stony
Rain has run in a strip down the lane
and small flints are deposited everywhere.
They were gouged out of some crater
dramatic as film-set or moonscape
and carted over long distances here.
I pick up a stone; just the one
I notice and palm it away
to represent this mood I’m in.
This nugget, harder than bone,
is high and dry now. Marooned
on my windowsill, it sits
looking on, to remind
me of you – how rare is it
for a stone to do that?
Susan Taylor
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