Sunday, 1 December 2013


The stone in my pocket is
white sun on snow,
the line where the trees are not,
thyme green air,
a dog barking, abruptly.

The stone in my pocket is
river water slipping over tree root,
under trail of almond blossom,
around grey fish fins,
through melted moonlight.

The stone in my pocket is
shudder of storm waves,
gulls bending against black rain,
sea detritus thrown high,
clattering crush of rock fall.

The stone in my pocket is
sea splash on wet sand,
fat buttons of pink thrift,
erratic cloud shadows,
coiled shells, breadcrumbs.

The stone in my hand is
white sun cold, river smooth
heavy as storm sea,
warm as laughter
lingering on a salt wind.

Alice Christie
29 xi 2013


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