(copyright of the artist)
Stones take to each other naturally,
Like a family of sleeping creatures,
The large ones accommodate little ones,
To create a colony of hardness;
They rest in centuries of stark stillness;
They are elephant-heavy to lush grass.
Their colours employ the afternoon sun;
They are as warm as loaves from an oven.
Each one embodies its personal death;
They are cobbled memories of the sea;
They are the solid language of labour:
Each one weathered to a perfect image.
They rest, innocent of their history,
Like a grey display of featureless skulls.
They have tasted our sweat and absorbed our blood.
They rise and fall, symbols of man’s conscience.
Their persistence has sculptured their silence;
They hint that their souls haunt other planets.
They are magnets for our primitive thoughts;
They are the armour of truths beyond us.
They shape our built fears of an afterlife,
They could tempt us into acts of worship.
Peter Thabit Jones © 2009