Feeling

Suburban roads; minor
repairs, cold trees propping
dead time in a low sky:
the grey stone of cloud.

An office; clean shirts, sound

of the shopfloor, warm dust
under paper, a bulb:
the white stone of heat.

There and back; past building

sites, gouges; watching things
deepen as something forms:
the brown stone of earth.

A park; a pleasant walk,

some questions. Beneath depths
a lake grins at itself:
the black stone of water.

Gathering up these things

in the weight of my head,
beat of my chest, I sucked
the iron stone of silence.

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© circa 1973-76