How many tides
have rolled it round,
this stone I hold
warm in my hand?
Rose-pink and grey
it is, you’d say,
the sky at dawn,
or held this way,
the silver glitter
of sun on water.
Sea-washed and smooth
it seems to breathe,
familiar there
like an old friend,
or a father’s warm palm
to the hand of a child.
This is so nostalgic for me, for I like nothing better than to pick up stones or shells by the water just to see the colors and smell where they have been. Beautiful. Raynette
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A beautiful ode to a beautiful pebble.Animistically Yours, Susie.