Stone Collectors

We played with stones in the garden, sneaked

them inside, crammed them in bags, buckets,

and bowls. Common grey pebbles, we turned

them over - they looked the same - lined them

up, held them in our hands. They felt solid.

Summers smelt of syrup and sugar, we picked

damsons from the trees, our mother boiled jam - 

we took the stones left behind. Our parents shouted

why’s this house full of crap? Soon, stones blocked

the doorways, windows, rooms. Our father lay

on the sofa, under every stone he compressed.

His face became smooth, no surface cracks,

he felt heavy all the way through. When he left,

there was a residue of dust. We searched

for the jam and it was still in the cupboard. 

In the garden, the fruit swelled, softened, 

fell. We walked under the trees and wet stones

stuck onto our bare feet, imprinted the skin.