Stones Poem by Wild Bill Balding

Elsie showed me hers.
She showed everyone,
whether they wanted to see it or not:
an inch long coppery-black bead,
nestled in a box of cotton wool,
passed along the table at the old folks' lunch club.

Molly wouldn't show me hers.
It lurked in the liquid
in the plastic pot they gave her,
out of her sight on the shelf by the bed
in her en-suite single room.

Doris held on to hers,
though they tried to fish for it
with a claw, as in an arcade,
missing it but holing her stomach.
They got no stone, no cuddly toy:
just a twitch and a torrent of khaki snot
on the third day in intensive care,
the last thing she ever showed anyone.