Journeys of Stones

Beginning with the grain;

The barley,

The board and

The beach;

Thinking it

Ought to

Hurt much more,

Mean much more

Than this.

Where is the music?

The returning tide?

Prints prove

You were here before,

But you have no recall.

The songs and cries of pebbles

Ring in your skull

Though you would swear

You’ve never heard them before.

The journeys of stones

Are buried deep

In your bones.

English: Five Pebbles

18/3/2013

To The Dust

He’s head-down, hanging on to the last loyal gasps

Of his grim-boned, stretch-necked mare,

Tired from the flight,

After the last fight.

Passed the two hundred notches mark;

Rifle responsibility heavy on aching

Rein wrenched shoulders.

It’s not going to last much longer –

It can’t –

Surprised he got this outlaw-far.

The road goes ever on, that’s for legend-sure,

Just no guarantee who’ll be on it

Or which way the wind’ll blow;

Though he realises that only now,

Too damned late, but with a wry smile.

The blues, the reds,

The lines and the grey …

How had he managed to

Evade them for so long?

The horse stumbles, blood

Flecks from flared nostrils

Splash to the dust.

It’ll stop hurting

When the pain has gone.

4/3/2013