#14 Mineral Content by Emma McKervey

Mineral Content

I hadn’t realised the stones on the beach would be warm.

At least, if I’d thought about it, the realisation probably would have occurred,

or, if you’d asked, expecting a response, I imagine, with consideration,

my reply would have been correct. Most likely, it seems.

But I hadn’t thought, and you didn’t ask.

So when I bent to pick up a stone, which was an iron-ish orange,

it was not the texture or the heft which surprised, but the warmth.

The warmth as it rested on one palm, then transferred to the other.

Then suddenly I was there, knelt in the midst of it all,

turning and rolling pebbles to test if the heat

was a trick of the mineral content which coloured my rock

or if every smooth, skim aching, tide turned oval

had allowed the sun to overcome what was expected of stone.

It had, as it turned out; it was all warmed, all of it.

And my hands were plunged in rock pools (warm),

the edges of the surf (warm), the crevices between resolute shells (warm),

and in bunches of seaweed clinging tight with its bleached out roots (warm).

When every stone had been turned, when every conch shaken free

of excessive brine, I was satisfied to realise all was indeed warm,

warmed in the lethargic haze of a sluggish sun.

Then finally I touched my hand to my cheek and found

(suddenly), that I too was warmed.