Poetry: Pebbles.

Pebbles.

I pick pebbles off the beach. They feel smooth, and real. Some have faces, some swirls and each tells its ancient tale. I become part of their story. A trip through millenia in my palm, lost forever with a simple throw, back into the sea. 

Someone asked me, 

‘Why do you pick pebbles off the beach?’ 

Why, because each pebble has a friend,’ I said. ‘A person that slides onto the beach like foam, dissipating in the dry and disappearing into the ether. Earth, rock and air, a trinity that forms a fragile thread, which breaks for everyone, when the time comes.’ 

The pebbles run through my fingers like sand.

I would like a pebble of my own, but as hard as I try, I cannot find it.  My mother stood behind me for ages, counting  as I threw one by one into the water. Then it was too late. She had gone. I searched still.  

I like solitude too much. 

So I remain, picking pebbles off the beach. They always come, and want to stay, making all their stories so easy to find, before I throw them back into the sea. 

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