A River of Stones is a project created for writers and non-writers, inviting them to write a small stone each day during the month of January. A small stone is a moment of being, captured in a few words, and a wonderful discipline to focus the mind and the pen! To find out more go to:
I intend to post my small stones here and on Twitter. They will also be linked to The River of Stones blog created by Kaspa and Fiona by means of the ‘aros’ tag.
1st January 2011
Silver mist swirls in the orange glow of the streetlamp. A crow caws, and caws again, trying to hold on to the night, but a watercolour blue melts the dark and chaffinches start their song.
Rain on the tarred felt roof beats a tattoo, telling me I’m home and dry.
A whole world in a featherlight case, and a mighty lead to power it.
Hot sun, iced cream, fresh strawberries. Sweet memories.
Old book, re-read. New truths revealed.
A serpent twists and coils, pushing the air from my lungs and the blood to my head. It squeezes my heart.
Quick march! Hurry-hurry. Shops, guests, dinner. Stop. Wait. Slowly, slowly … Food, friends and supping …
A thatch of sugar-frosted blades crunch beneath my feet, an icy nip catches my nose, and green shoots peep through dark earth.
The eternity of our love in a glimpse. Gone, but understood.
A wave of seagulls’ cries wash across the sky, and fade, leaving me on a cold winter street, with warm summer sand beneath my feet.
Whirlpools whisk round a hidden rock, but the rock is deep and firm.
I rise slowly but surely, standing to the right, to let others pass me by.
Joseph, 3ft tall, stands on stage pushing words from his lips, and a finger up his nose.
Fog shrouds the rook-racked trees, silvering the wide, green downs and drawing me in, to silence.
Pewter pools, separate and solitary, wait patiently on a grey dawn beach for the incoming tide.
Dad, lying on the hospital bed, creased and small. He should be standing, over 6ft tall.
The jelly quivers, the candles glow. He takes a breath, he gives a blow. Darkness, and the sunshine of children’s laughter.
Blue-tits, blackbirds and robins, flutter, frolic and feed.
Morning, and my in-tray’s unfettered; my mind unfretted. I breathe in and press the button, which shelters the messes.
She held the door to let others through with the grace of so much dignity she had no need to stand on it.
Venus, on a spread of sapphire silk, kisses the morning.
Damp earth, rank with rotting vegetation, gives rise to strong, green shoots, stretching for the sky.
Every grain of regret is grit in my heart.
A sweep of starlings fill the sky, soaring and swirling, this way and that, on a silent dance to sunset and sleep.
Anger bursts through the door; six foot four, and two foot three.
Faded emerald leaves bow beneath crimson petals of poinsettia, in memoriam to Christmas.
Beneath the grey blanket of the day, green buds are beginning to grow.
The damselfly dances round my memory, a myriad of summers, and you. But the damselfly, the summers, and you, are gone.
Smoothly honed Istrian stone whispers of the waters from which it sprang, urging my eyes to linger and my fingers to stray.
A shaft of light finds a gap in the heavy curtains, throwing a silver sword on the wall at the foot of my bed.
I tossed a handful of stones in the river and the ripples rolled out, and returned with words from around the world. Thank you.
Through my study window, wind blows and buffets filligree fingers of beech, but the trunk stands straight and strong.
The seagull spreads its wings, grey on grey, and soars on lifts of air.
I draw back thick, woven cream onto pale grey silk and diamond drops; the fabric of the morning.
My hands grasp the wheel, my car grips the road; rushing forward, holding on.
Deep in the wide Black Mountains, nothing but green gorse and silence surrounds me. From somewhere, out of sight, a sheep coughs.