Pebble by Anthony Conran

World pebble in my hand —
Millimetre escarpments,
Cliffs, potholes,
Flat places.

It remembers
A red mist of
Liquid stone
Slopping into the air.

Pressure was the heartbeat of living rock,
Millions of tons of it,
The pouring of world
To its centre.

Now this little lost stone
Must travel the trivial
Rivers of death.
Rub into dissolution.

Sharp gravel. Sand. Mud.
And then, deep down
Fragments
Like a froth of rock.

Settle into the seabed.
Relax under the tons of deep sea.
Harden again
To strata.

It could be my fingers
That the sediments
Mould
Into chert.

My thumbprints could be fossil next.
The pebble on its way to death
Might laugh last.
It would remember me.

From: http://mortality-branchlinesblog.blogspot.com.au/2013/01/rip-tony-conran-poet.html

Date: 1986

By: Anthony Conran (1931-2013)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: