Luke 19.40

I am stone

I am grey stone

I am green grey stone

I am stone

White stone

Greystone

I am black stone

I am white

Greenstone

Small grey

Roundstone

Flat

I am sharp young

I am tired

They are beach

And each voice is added as the waves crash

and roll

and suck back and tumble and tickle, roar and moan

against the breathing shoreline

eating it

feeding it

punishing and renewing it.

These voices, these stones, they sing psalms of bitter grief, or joy

Its their story.

Added

Voice by voice

each aeon

by day, by night

Under waves,

between rainstorm

heavy drownings

and blanching sunlight.

I am smoothstone

stone is all.

pumice:

and heat and terror

sandstone:

and boredom

tedium, sinking amnesia.

I am greenstone, white-veined

torture

wrought me.

The earth’s indigestion

spewed me.

The adolescent sea

soothed me.

The political unrest

of allstones

has worn me, and borne me here.

Luke, 1940.

I am Luke.

Mrs Jones brought us here.

I never saw the sea before.

I miss Mum and Dad and Mrs Finnegan and Harry who lives up the street.

But George is here and I brought Grady, who smells of home.

His threadbare nose presses my cheek, soaks up my tears, helps me to sleep.

The beach is exciting and I need a stone for the top of my castle.

Voices

There is no Boy

No such place as Handpalm

Legend has it one

was skimmed across the waves within a wooden shell

The sea cracked it open and he was its kernel

Shalespeak!

All the oppressions of  our groaning, melting and crystallizing

have been without Boy.

If not Boy:

No stone.

Only shared silica and sulphur and agonies of rending,

Cleaving, pounding, breaking and rounding:

A ‘stone’ a  mere  pause in the melting.

Yet I am green.

Though we are blind,

I am seen.

Boy chooses me!

Warmed as I’m lifted,

I arrive in handpalm.

Now this sandcastle is my Hosannah!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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