PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It’s just a stone, nothing more,

Eight inches long, double tapered, round in section.

Not broken, but showing the signs of heavy use in the hard sharp sandstone.

Of no real value they said and quite impossible to date.

We found a dozen like it when we walked the fresh furrows of the Glebe meadow.

Mostly broken, others lost, or discarded, like the centuries old rhythm

Of stone on steel.

In the shade of the great southern hedge,

We find: their pot shards from old drinking vessels,

Some soda glass, bone and wooden buttons, a buckle and a few, very few, small coin.

The winding hedge, in it’s great variety, helped date the field,

Mid Saxon, they say.

It was twice as big in Domesday.

Now I take the stone from my pocket and set it to the steel

I’m glad that I found it, it sits well.

Wading waste deep in the now rank and sour smelling headland,

I cut the acrid, iron rich nettles,

For the gently waiting Charolais.

I lost my stone here last year.