The Stone

A rocky beach.
My father’s hand,
a map of callouses,
holds a sea-polished stone.

Twisting beneath
its unyielding surface,
violet threads
dance with the summer light.

Tranquil bare stone,
refined till rough is a word, not a memory.
Brooding silently,
dreams lost between one swirl and the next.

Pitted bare skin,
Veins and lines expressing labour, effort.
Steady work,
love hiding the burden of hope.

Auroras of emotions locked inside,
like lions staring,
alone in luminescent prisons.
Captive.