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Soon the stones will lie
lonely and unsung, no-one to praise

the strength and beauty
they’ve brought into the world.

A Cherokee Indian I heard tell of

played his flute to the stones, he believed
each stone had a crystal of silicon
inside, through which it listened.

The stones, he said, were like

lonely old folk, wai ng
To be sung to.

Dad speaks at last,
It’s me to go, son,

Best be gone.

First published in Wri en in Stone (ed. Paul Hyland) Purbeck Footprints 2009

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