The Stone Age

Our proprietorial boy brings home

Stones and sticks 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 brief use, becomes 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 objects

Like words, do no harm.