The stones

 
The stones came from somewhere.

One came from a ruined mill in Devon, which flowed and eroded downstream.
One came from a basalt flow in Surrey, carried away by the heavy rains during the Precambrian.
One came from the cleats of the shoe of a boy of sixteen who picked it up in Dumfries, who then took the train down to London to visit his aunt Millie, who then proceeded to run away, never to be seen again.
One came from beyond the sea, torn from the ground by the great swayings of the tectonic plates in an age men can only recall in the mind’s eye.
One came from deep underground, dug up during the major roadworks of ‘66, with unnoticed traces of blood on it.
One came from a larger silex which cracked open under the intensity of the witch bonfire that burnt there.
One came from a mother who laid it down, painted as it was then, by the riverside, for her daughter’s spirit to pick up on her way to distant shores where she could not then follow, and which paint had now been washed away.

There were other stones too.

When she picked them all up
one by one and by the handful
and packed them in her pockets
she didn’t know if it was the weight
of billions of years of history
of the stories they evoked
or that of her depression
but she loved each of the stones
for what they were and meant
solaced that their presence
would keep her under the surface
along with countless other stones
where she would come to rest
for millions upon millions of years.