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| The Gravel Pit That stone skipped across the water, tossed by me when youth was there, flipped out of fingers nonchalant and free in the best of times. Gleaming bright under summer skies, it sailed a spiral-arc, descending free as anything imagined or now forgotten. That stone was cold as ice when first picked up for throwing: soaring a silver-streak through time; warming to life in flight. Memory is a lasting gift, a rare delight which lingers and returns when called upon for comfort should darkness enter. |
| THE POET SPEAKS: GRAVEL PIT came to me in a flash of time. The words fell onto the lines as if guided by a force within. I consider it one of my best creations. |
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