Moving (Ii) Poem by Jacqui Thewless

Any one of these stones on the beach
could be It. Picked (and pocketed) by me for form -
circle of quartz, cross, spiral, fixed in a sea-smoothed bit of grey cliff, black cliff -
or else chosen for being rosy pink,
mauve, green; gem with sparkling trails of light in it.

But I am holding myself back now, leaving the strand alone,
unnoticed, contents random and unspecified.

It will not be long before I'm home,
sitting quietly at table
with my own milky white stone, green-flecked, rust-tinged, like a flat planet
or like an egg, left by a goose
back in the time
when people were giants.