For weeks I collected stones,
small stones, gravel, flint,
and piled them in a neat mound
next to the garden path
as if they were a miniature
pebble-dashed barrow.
This small insignificant landmark
remained in place for years,
no one knew its purpose
or if it had a purpose; it didn’t!
Oddly, conversations were hushed
in its vicinity as if in reverence
to some dead family pet,
the last resting place of Bert the goldfish.
An aura of worship gathered around
the different colours, and different shapes
that gleamed like polished gems
when washed by the rain.
Stones without sacrifice.
Just stones. Nothing but stones.
But who would believe that.
