They are never so beautiful as now:
lustrous with light and water,
a succession of small startles
shining in the dun matt sand.
Blown bubbles wander up
from the waveline, skate on waterfilm
which holds the piebald sky,
the adolescent April sun.
I walk on blue-white heavens.
I bend to prize up a pebble,
wipe wet sand from its underside.
This is my stone: a faded brown
with a perfect circle of grey
at one end, it’s rough-smooth
like an egg, a perfect palm fit—
cool and comforting and sure.
Into my sagging pocket it goes.
At home, it will sit with others
in the bowl on the windowsill:
dry dull, sometimes dusted,
no longer recalling me to where I was,
or when, but only a reminder
that I have inhabited my days; and that
nothing is ever so beautiful as now.
First published in Iceberg Tales, June 2019