Poem of the week: Gravel by Maurice Riordan
There’s a wry smile underlying Riordan’s examination of the greatness and smallness of a heap of gravel For FrankI, too, will spend an hour playing with the gravel. Sorting and cleaning it. It does love the dirt. Dead leaves, grit, seeds that can sprout. And it hides the odd slug or worm. We can’t be having that! Some of these stones have come a great distance. Continue reading...
There’s a wry smile underlying Riordan’s examination of the greatness and smallness of a heap of gravel
For Frank
I, too, will spend an hour playing with the gravel.
Sorting and cleaning it. It does love the dirt.
Dead leaves, grit, seeds that can sprout. And it hides
the odd slug or worm. We can’t be having that!
Some of these stones have come a great distance. Continue reading...
