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in anthology Four Caves of the
Heart,
Second
Light Publications, ISBN 095469340X
and in pamphlet Single
Travellers, 2004
Flarestack, ISBN 1900397706
Something
Like a Stone
If I’d been
asked a little while ago
what sadness is,
and where it tends to grow,
I might have
said:
it flourishes
in shade
of sombre
yews, or sighs in swaying reeds
along black
creeks that web a lonely marsh
or overflows
from reservoirs of grief.
I’d not have
said:
sadness
unfolds like wings
that must not
fly too near the scorching sun.
I’d not have
said:
sadness can
weave a net
to trawl more
fine and rare discoveries.
I’d not have
said:
sadness
becomes a lens
that focuses
the edge of happiness.
I’d still not
say, because I still don’t know
if sadness is
the kernel or the shell
for every nut of
truth. I only know
that in my
breast lies something like a stone
that was not
there a little while ago.
Christine
Coleman
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