Flint-hearted, am I
the one pure pebble
cast amongst a whole terrace
of football hooligans
stratified banks of them
all similarly rounded, the
roughly the same, some laid intact
others cracked, holed, bruised
shattered in half. yet all
differently coloured
pattern mottled
placed in ever shifting hierarchies
where size matters, each prepared
to surrender to the other,
to rub up along with and against
each stone cold cheek
in tidal increments, a movement
inward, along the beaches
tossing and turning like opals learning
how to erode and be smoothed
by the hug of the moon
through our collisions and encounters
with the other, though
causally gathered together
we remain totally alone
on the long long journey
towards the becoming of sand
locked in a ruttling percussive rumba
within the sea of maracas.
written September 2020
Stephen Lumb
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