Graham Stone Poems
Comments about Graham Stone
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, ...
An Idle Musing
Can you bring a conscious face to the mirror?
Is it swollen when you see it?
Is it aghast, agape with shock or love?
What stares back at you when you look?
In my house, there are no mirrors.
Just my distorted doppelganger in the window’s glass.