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sea stones

They are never so beautiful as now:

lustrous with light and water,

a succession of small startles

shining in the dun matt sand.

Blown bubbles wander up

from the waveline, skate on waterfilm

which holds the piebald sky,

the adolescent April sun.

I walk on blue-white heavens.

I bend to prize up a pebble,

wipe wet sand from its underside.

This is my stone: a faded brown

with a perfect circle of grey

at one end, it’s rough-smooth

like an egg, a perfect palm fit—

cool and comforting and sure.

Into my sagging pocket it goes.

At home, it will sit with others

in the bowl on the windowsill:

dry dull, sometimes dusted,

no longer recalling me to where I was,

or when, but only a reminder

that I have inhabited my days; and that

nothing is ever so beautiful as now.

Lucy Crispin is a former Poet Laureate of South Cumbria. Her work has appeared in Envoi, The Salopian, Literary Oxygen, Poetry Cornwall, The Quiet Feather, Allegro, Eildon Tree and Poetic Licence as well as in various anthologies. She works freelance for the Wordsworth Trust and as a person-centred counsellor and facilitator.

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