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, ...
How The Light Gets In
(Acknowledgment of a Faceless Angst)
The sky wallows through a broken blue,
Bruised only by the silhouettes of hanging clouds,
Which sit so sad along the night’s fading breath,
In whispered rasps of rattled death,
That provides the earth a squally shroud.
How the light gets in, I do not know.