a poet can write about a pebble and make a page of it <br />he'll tell you all about the texture, and any lumps or bits <br />he'll tell you how it feels to touch, and smell and see and taste <br />but by writing much about a pebble, an hour of time he wastes <br /> <br />time that could be productive, time that could be used <br />not time spent in tune with a pebble, time that's been abused <br /> <br />he'll tell you how the pebble came to be in this its place <br />he'll tell you all about it's life and the history of the pebble race <br />he'll tell you how the pebble travelled, far and worldy wide <br />but the fact that he's just dossing, in words he'll never hide <br /> <br />so he looks at the pebble, the pebble looks back <br />stone cold, blank faced, stiff <br />oh he could be a pebble too, he wonders, what and if <br />if a pebbles life's worth living, or is it just a bore <br />to spend a thousand years, just sitting on the floor <br /> <br />or maybe, it could be quite fun, to live a pebble life <br />to start out as a massive boulder on a mountain side <br />to slowly feel the wear and tear of natures harsh caress <br />layer by layer of sediment the weathers hands undress <br />to grow smaller day by day, chip by chip <br />eventually to wash so small that down the hill you slip <br />landing in a stream or brook, taken for a ride <br />or maybe by a glaciers grasp, pulled over countryside <br />and as the transformation comes, though it comes so very slow <br />after a millenia becomes the pebble we know <br /> <br />kicked by foot, from place to place, til ere it did now land <br />to end up being touched and felt by one poor poets hand <br />and now though left alone again to crumble soon to dust <br />the pebble now immortal, in words that write i must.<br /><br />Graham Eccles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pebble-5/
