Graham Stone Poems
A Dirty Toy
I see it, the dead dirty doll
There between the sleepers of tracks,
And the creepers of weeds
I see it with its weathered cracks,
A deadening perhaps, of some child’s luckless dream.
I see it, stained with filth and rain
Some rag of fabric clung about its chest
With knees grazed by the passing train
Faded plastic, warped and stressed.
Some child I think loved it once
And must have cursed the day she let it go
But more I think in natural cruelty she threw it
To watch with curious guilt it crushed by the train below.
I think that dirty doll, ...
A Poisoned River
Remember, a sight I once did gaze in early dew and hum,
Bathed in beams and reamed in rays of early summer’s sun.
In that fresh cold glow I took a stroll in solace, and silence, and contemplated thought.
A walk along a beaten path; my feet trod on grinding earth and stone,
But no sound bore up from the crunching pound,
As nearby my destination, I focused upon a sweetly whispered sound.
A river. A ravine. A stream.
A flow of water as shaped as none that had a name.
Its rush and gubble