Field of Stones

by Eilidh Thomas

I sit overlooking a field of stones
rounded and washed by the sea.
I cup one stone in my hand
and wonder … what memory
can a stone hold
of the world, aeon to aeon?Unspoken words, aeon to aeon,
rocks cast with hearts of precious stones,
precious to hold
unbroken, hidden from the sea
these sun bleached stones, a memory,
closed in my hand.

Like the stones, the sea holds in its hand
an energy, suppressed and brutal, aeon to aeon
coursing through its steely memory,
lying spent upon the stones,
flat calm, the sea beyond the sea,
to wonder and behold.

What brutality does it hold?
beautifully arranged driftwood in outstretched hand
thrust from the sea,
tossed, aeon to aeon,
clawed into the field of stones,
buried from memory.

Bred with the memory,
a yellow eyed gull will hold
menace over the sea of stones,
fear at hand,
reaching out, aeon to aeon,
a vicious old crone of the sea.

Bordered onto the sea,
pungent coconut gorse scents the memory,
rolling like waves from aeon to aeon,
asking time to hold
thorny spines with a thorny hand
beneath, and rooted to the stones.

In silent memory, hidden lochans near at hand
keep secrets on hold, from aeon to aeon,
trails of stones, stored within the dark intensity of the sea.

~~~~~

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