Stones. You lie on the ground, minding your own business when I go for a walk in the countryside. On the shore, you watch the waves come tumbling towards you, sometimes catching you and drawing you back to tumble gently backwards and forwards for another eternity. You sit by yourselves, on the side of an urban path, out of your natural habitat – lost – displaced from your new garden home. You ask to be picked up and slid into my pocket; adopted, rehomed; to live where you will be treasured; where you won’t be kicked under the path of a passing car.
Grounded stones – on the ground and of the ground. You are comforting anchors to the earth; the mother rock.
I am but fleeting; fragile and flighty; lacking in substance, to you ancient, wise, silent witnesses.
You will remain long after I am gone.