Monday, 9 February 2009


He's heavy in my pocket. Where it reaches his frown, that rusted metal comes to a harsh point that catches against the lining of my coat, takes me by surprise and scratches my hand.

His cold grey face that never seems to warm up, is almost heart-shaped. He looks ancient from the sea's battering and from the restless and ruthless tumbling among thousands of other stones being dragged by the tides. 

Like some strange artifact, like he has tales to tell about sadness and courage, I think I should look at him more often.