Friday, August 20, 2010


Stone Girl

Last night the stone girl smiled at me.
She has changed since coming here,
for the better. There were stone girls to spare
once, but the few left are in garden centres
with wishing wells and fishing gnomes,
their dreams gone to ponds and pebble dash.
The rain will course from their tunics,
their faces smudge with sausage smoke.
She was on a sculpted lawn in Nunholm,
demure with her water jugs. We took
her home to stand in wild vine and lemon balm.
She took root in the bedlam.
Now ankle deep in tansy
she sloshes back from the sanctuary
with wine, her bared breast no decoration
but a carefree accident, or come-on.
Xiape, the stone girl seems to say, be
yourself like me, be free.


pilgrimchick said...

Very, very interesting subject you've chosen for this.

Marion McCready said...

Lovely, great opening line.

Stooshie said...

Didn't you mean to write "Demure with her watery jugs"?

Good poem though, like it.

puffincounter said...

Aye, but gie heavy fur a skinny bird.