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.