Moon Sea Stone

I am rolling, rolling, rolling:

I am still.

I am rolling, rolling, rolling:

I am still.

Stop. Pull.

Tumbling blindly

Over and over.

*

I am a product of my travels,

One part of the strata,

Once a jagged flake of land,

Rough-hewn and snatched

From my bed - Rock.

My edges were sharp

And placed me in the wider scheme.

But I have changed.

I have been changed.

Forced to change.

Caught between liquid

And rough.

Pummelled and pushed,

Pulled and prodded,

The relentless battering

Has taken away my features

And all you can see now is

My smooth flat face.

*

I am a traveller,

A magician who appears

And disappears..

Today, I blend, nestled in a cluster,

With others who have

Endured.

Our tormentor has retreated

Ordered by his mistress

The moon

To let us rest.

We wait.

My face covered with weed,

My cheeks tickled by the feet of crustaceans

As I sit, helplessly static

And anticipate

The next salty assault.

*

Currently, I am sleek;

I gleam, polished,

The touch of my master's attention

Still on my skin

And I am obsidian,

Dark, wet, shiny.

Light will fall on me

And his touch will fade

Lifted,

Like mist.

My skin will be lighter

As the sun burns me:

Her captive.

She strips me to the reveal

And my undertraces emerge;

Images of white,

Freckles and speckles

And stripes

In the grey.

No longer slickened,

No longer thickened

With a jacket

Of brine.

*

I have heard tales of permanency.

A pink claw reaching

And removing:

Taken,

Away from the bright blue

And the uncertainty

Of certain tides.

*

Placed in a position by wood

As a supporting prop.

*

Dark loamy soil under a tree,

A face struggling to see

The light through the leaves

And a mask painted,

Smothering,

Of multicoloured acrylic:

Transformed from natural beauty

To a gaudy message of positivity

Or a ladybird, bee, other insect:

A convenient canvas for small hands.

*

In a glass case:

A collection

On a warm windowsill,

Gazing out through the clear

Unmoving surface.

Gravity held and pinned by other

Chosen companions

Picked from the sand

For their aestheticism.

*

Caught in warm, slavering jaws

Where sharp white daggers

Meat-smelly

Try and permeate

The hard exterior -

Some of us crack,

The pressure revealing

An unknown fissure

And the continued onslaught

Pierces and crushes and

Crumbles us to grit and dust

Covered in the slavering slathering

Of a different master.

*

I will diminish

By degrees

If I remain here.

But I do not know my fate.

I may not move today.

I may be thrown,

Deep.

I may be cracked against others.

I may feel the sole

Of a soul

As they pass over.

I may be taken and

Live forever

On a dressing table.

*

But perhaps more likely

I will stay

And be transformed

Beyond

Tangible recognition

Over ages into a grain.

Inexorable destiny.

I may get rubbed

Out of existence

A pebble no more

And I will be able

To run as I trickle

Through your hands.

***

There are few things smoother than a pebble. I love them. I find when I go to the beach that there is such a myriad of different stones that I revert to a childish urge to collect and scrutinise and examine and slip these little gems of nature into my pocket.

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