The Stone Age / by Alex Williamson


Our eldest child brings home

Sticks and stones from the park.


 Bits of grit, lumps of gravel,

Marble-sized pebbles, tiny rocks;


Indiscriminately selected twigs;

Branches, feathers, lichen, bark.


What will grow from this stony rubbish?

He cannot know or say, though each


Holds some use, as a curate’s egg,

Growing the small, neglected stack


In the corner of our porch

Where leaves and cobwebs collect.


A broken nest. A stone age ruin.

A disinterred cairn. Relics


 Of his untroubled realm:

Days without rules or doubt,


Cruelty or loss, where things,

Like names, do no harm.