a beautiful thing

perhaps this place will wash
over me, like
water over stone, years
in the smoothing, relentless,
incessant, moving
its soft work to make the
jagged and the jutting
smooth to silk in the hand.

perhaps if I just
wake, sleep, and breathe
the years will do their
silent work
and I will one day
wake
to find myself healed, skin-
smooth, heart eased, scars
erased.

perhaps if my eyes just
drink-in the green
and I feel the soft
rain on my skin
and I eat, keep moving
it will happen
slowly, quietly, like the

build-up of silt in a 
forgotten corner, and
one morning one summer
I will rise

made new, and age will be
my benison, the stone of my
heart not weighing a tonne
and my step will be
lightening in the new dawn sun
and I will be
not what I am:  I will be
smooth pebble in the hand
palm-fitting Scottish
granite that no grinding
could make:
		a beautiful thing

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