Highland Pebble Poem by Robin Fulton

In the hand, found wanting.
There are more ways to growth
than obeying green cells.
In dreams I throw the stone
and it walks back. In life
I throw it and it stops.
In neither can I lift
what gives the stone its weight:
Ben Griam´s westward scoop,
the wind´s prevailing touch
and the tenacity
of water molecules
working through the peat maze.
A context, outliving.
A subtext, blind, writ large.
My hand, that´s found wanting.