I have collected heaviness
Weighty words
Sullen stones,
Petrified bones.
And sunk them beneath
Skin of sandy pores.
Old, cold
Granite hard,
Flesh, bones, not much more
On conscious waking
Made lowered feet fall
To stone cold floors.
Where I filled my work boots
With uncomfortable pebbles.
And reached for talismans
Of causes and chores
Weighed my neck
With ropes of quartz.
Filled my mouth with gold
My eyes with obsidian,
My ears with muting lead.
And rolled
My greying form
Away from my bedrock bed.
Conscious this rocky orb
So ignobly igneous born
Watered and fed
Will all too soon be
A re-born round grey stone,
Re-mineralised,
And heavily dead,
Delia Woodham