There are no stones, no rocks in this landscape,
just sand and what grows on sand. Water. Mud.
Once abroad, I feel the power of rocks,
cliffs, ancient ground to belong. I take a stone.
I take it home with me. Questions arise.
Why take a stone to travel home with you.
How to call a stone, a pebble, a rock
that doesn’t belong and is indifferent.
The sand is softer, bends more, shapes and blows
while the stone is constant in existence.
I took a stone away from foreign shore,
now it is resting on the window-sill.
The stone has moved into a landscape where
only sand rules. But it feels right at home.
There is a grey stone now in this flat land.
Forever the same. Never blown away.
I found a reason on a foreign beach.
Sometimes we need to go away to find
what’s left behind, what matters in a shell,
in seaweed, a grey feather, in a stone.