Tug Dumbly - Stone

Stone   

Can’t leave a rock unfisted,        

a stone alone, but must  

Gutenberg press it to skin,                       

Cuneiform its text to palm      

of clay, weigh the cooled

magma tongue of a pebble

in wallet of flesh, wombed

like a coin in a vending slot

snailed to forefinger,

sprung to sinew

of the wrist’s slingshot,   

a siege engine drawn

like Russell Crowe full cocked:

‘at my signal, unleash hell …’

Go on, have a fling,

show us what you got -

the kinetic cleanse

of a raw chucked rock,

jemmying a rainbow,

pinchin’ gravity like a fat

child’s cheek, to crack a gum,

bounce from a pond,

be gulped like a frog

in the gob of a creek.   

There’s not always grace

but can be spectacle

to the Neolithic Games,

as two bushboys lob

sandstone clods from a cliff

into a Tom Roberts afternoon.             

Bailed Up

             they sail

                         the ravine

                                         

with the poxy aim

of a Berlin bombardier      

payload floating  

to the rock bed below

and oh the rapture as those   

golden chunks of honeycomb

explode in a violent crumble

of a most sweetly satisfying nature.