Cool Rocks
A poem about childhood
A source of great comfort
I found when I was young,
And round my garden
I would kick the same stone.
Up and down the hill to school,
Then when I moved,
Up and down a different hill.
It started off the size of my fist
Grey and mottled with impurities.
My bottled-up youth un-stoppered,
And the libation was my anger.
I kicked it up the street
To the corner, where it’d stick
In gutters and kerbs.
I thought I was slick
Hurting that which feels no hurt.
Popping bubbles.
Fish it out, roll it out, kick it into chips.
Flakes, invisible crumbs,
Sacrifices fell off.
The stone got smaller.
It got smoother.
I got smarter, quieter.
My conversations, a duet
between my words and the rumble
Between my heels. Active listening.
Other rocks I’d find at school
And on the beach, cooler places.
Wrong places, right times.
Stealing from museum gift shops,
Shoplifting cool rocks.
They stopped on my shelf
As my trophy shrank between my heels.
I adjusted to the sound as it dulled.
It was our voice changing.
It was the size of my thumb when I retired it.
Smooth, polished on carpets at slow meetings.
It had seen my world and my favourite movies.
The best it could wish me now
Was good luck.