I tried to make a path from stones and pebbles,
collected from the beach and carried home.
I chose them one by one from park and garden,
brushed off the soil, then placed them in a row
I piled them up, one rock upon another,
stood back and contemplated the effect;
the look and feel, the shifting shingle grouping,
a sometimes jagged sharpness that it left.
At first I hadn’t known they’d need containing;
their shapes and textures pleasing, smooth and round,
but then I sensed them knock against each other,
collide in changing contexts, shifting ground.
I saw them, trodden down and disappearing,
sink back into the earth from which they’d come.
I’d thought them mine; the world sought to reclaim them;
chiselling new meaning from the stone.
I tried again, I laid a holding membrane,
visited new sites, collected more.
Reordered, piled, and polished from my journey,
the treasures from each trip enriched my store
Until at last I’d made myself a pathway.
The pebbles came together underfoot.
Tho’ every now and then it shifted slightly
I’d found a road through words towards a truth.