Stones

Some are soft and smooth and small

Embedded in the sand

Some stay hidden

Like a memory a word

And some are swallowed by the rain

And some lye still and glisten after storms

And some are ochre

And some are dyed in crimson shades of red

And some are smooth soft pearls of sapphire blue

Gracing the sea and sand

And some are collected

Like afterthoughts

And some are forgotten rubbed clean

Some children turn them into trinkets

And some become dreams

Or lost down stream

And some are stripped clean

Placed on cluttered mantlepieces

Amidst photographs

And chiming clocks

And some are picked by idle schoolboys

Learning the art of war

Watching them turn the earth to red

Watching them hit the head of the bank

And fall unnoticed to the floor

And some become the stepping stones

Arrows that fly in foreign lands

The bitter pearls

That serve as markers of contempt

That turns a child's hands to war

yvette m smith feb 09

poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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