Poetry and poësie

Living stone

The small piece of lard-white flint
we call a stone,
the dull nightshade-black piece of shale
we call a stone,
the dry-blood crumbly piece of ouklip
we call a stone.

Hiding in a peach,
waiting for the flesh
to be ripped off,
waiting for the writhing soil,
the lash of rain –
is a stone
that will give birth
to a brother
tree.