Stoned
I’m struck by the stones
not pebbles smooth rounded stones.
The deserted cove I’ve come across
is filled with millions of them
from the foot of the cliff to where
they disappear beneath the waves.
Stones small medium large
every shade of grey.
I pick up a few of these ovoids
weighing them in my palm.
Balance ones of decreasing size
on top of each other constructing
a watchtower in the face of
the tide that foams ever closer.
Next day I return to contemplate
such ruins as remain.
Love the solitary watchtower watching the sea coming closer. And the ruins.
Have you put in ‘thoughtfully’ and ‘philosophically’ just so someone can suggest taking them out? We can see you ‘weighing them’ and ‘contemplating’ so the adverbs are perhaps extraneous?
Some trimming could make this very thoughtful poem stronger, for example in stanza 5:
‘few’ instead of ‘number of these ovoids’ ?
Good points, Robbie! I’ve now carried out an edit.
Ah … I know a few places like this and I think I’ve seen your watchtower!.. lovely lonesome contemplative poem like a walk on a shore can be… Just wondered if there was anything to be gained from exploring the physical senses in the poem as well, perhaps the feel of the stones in your hand as you construct the tower…