Stones 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...