Don Pearson - Pebble

It is said that, on this shore,
Lies the ideal pebble.
I spend my life, with aching back,
Looking, weighing, examining
The texture, the colour while dry,
The sensuous colour when wet,
The contouring and curves,
The size, the polish, the shape.
Beyond all else,
I seek to know
The mystery inside.

I have held many pebbles,
Some time after time.
Some have been close
To my perfection,
All have been discarded.

Should I find it,
If I recognise it, finally,
I shall heft it,
Toss it once in my hand,
Draw back my arm
And cast it
(a perfect, effortless flick)
into the sea.


(For Nicola/27th October 2006)

Don Pearson

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pebble-4/