The Pebble

I have just returned home from the Guernsey Literary Festival. Four days of excellent workshops, readings and camaraderie. The last event I attended was a poetry reading in a cafe where those that had attended the festival were invited to read some of their work.

Searching through my book I could not decide what to read, until I put my hand in my pocket...

The Pebble

The little pink pebble
Was found on a beach
It lives in my pocket
My thoughts to impeach.

Created in fire
at the dawn of the earth
It cooled to granite
With much bigger girth

It was covered with algae
When life first began,
It saw off the dinosaurs
and the ascent of man,

The rough granite texture
Has been smoothed with time
its Feldspar and quartz
Give off a faint shine.

My existence is shorter
Than this tiny stone’s
and it will be here when
I’m nought but bones

With hand in my pocket
Its cool form I feel
It gently reminds me
My life is for real.

When I feel down
As I often do
I touch its smooth surface
And admire the view

When I am low
and life’s not worth a damn
It’s touch hits my thoughts,
Like a battering ram

Think of those things
that bring me great joy
of being a Father
or when I was boy

Or think I’ll grow rich
And drive a nice car
I Let it remind me
We are who we are

A negative thought
Like; “it’s been a crap day”
can turn to remembering
a romp in the hay.

There’s always a friend
To give me advice
but my little pebble
will always suffice.

So remember this poem
When next you're alone
bend to the ground
and get your own stone.

John Carré Buchanan
23 June 2010