Stone at the Creek, Sir

Sir, a report of a stone, Sir, I found down at the creek, brushed with water like egg brushes pastry, dotted and spotted in drips and drabs, half-dry, half-cold. Sir, the stone was pebble-grey, warm, light -- rolled sweet fondant, speckling like a robin's egg, freckled ochre by the sun, with darker spots where the light fails to catch, Sir. Forgive me, Sir, I was enraptured, captured; the stone was bedding an eighth into the creek-sand, sat promptly, pertly, rightly, shaded in a horizontal sky-grey when the clouds came over, chittering like a gem in the sea. The stone was round and blunt -- it cut the water straight in half. Sir, the stone would fit perfectly in the palm of my hand.

Words by Molly Clarke, she/her