A pebble of flint. Smooth and pitted like the surface of the moon. Black with hints of starlight grey.
A speck against my palm holds memory, the beauty of holy darkness. The softness of a quiet night. Far from city lights, in the lee of a mountain near the sea.
I scower the sand at my feet, as I walk the trails through the woods. Like I used to on the beach with Mum.
I think of all her little treasures. In little boxes.
Stones and shells, rough uncut gems of red jasper and smoothed quartz. Patterns carved by time and water. Treasures never touched, until they were plucked from the infinite. The stretching shifting mass of stones along the shore. Plucked like ripe blackberries. Gifts given to those who notice the wonder at our feet.
So moving Joseph thank you