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, ...
In amongst the thick and thorned bushes it lays,
Biting bitter berries; whiling the day away.
It dribbles juices in bleeding streams from its lips
As it masticates the drenched saliva-clad fibres
Around a gaping trap.
It gags a slow reproach as the bitter berries cramp in its stomach.
A Lurch, but it won’t give up the poison.
Instead it rolls on to its face and dies,
Packing its limbs neatly into the earth.