Pebbles in the stream



The pebble dropped into the stream

may roll down to the ocean vast and blue,

or, like your love, sink forgotten

into weed-choked mud.


Rain on stone,

pattering cold from stony sky,

washes the dust and the clinging grime,

washes clean

for memories to build anew.


No light in this air,

this day of damp and dinge,

cold clings like a second skin,


and relentless as the mud-gorged river.


Once so clear, the future,

decked with diamonds bright as stars,

dense and dull now as the river,

swollen with sorrowing rain

and the debris of broken things.



The Secret Keeper’s word prompt this week was this sequence:


I didn’t think I was going to make anything out of this set of words, but this poem (with a slight bending of the words) came without too much bidding.

photo ©Alison Rawson


On the bank of the river side,

Patched and seamed by running feet,

Birdprints prick the shiny mud,

Smoothed then dimpled by the tide.

Blackbird clears away the mould,

Unctuous ooze of last year’s leaves,

Where worms and snails hide in the dark,

And spring rebels against the cold.