IN THE GARDEN
I dig, and strike a small stone with my spade, Slate grey, striated with a lighter shade. Informed by education I’m aware Of random reasons for its presence there. In ancient seas slow sediments of lime Were crushed to solid rock by passing time, Violent eruptions overturned the earth, Piled up the plates and gave the mountains birth, In a long age of ice the glaciers’ glide Scattered the shattered shingle far and wide, Then it was ripple rounded in the flow Of some forgotten stream, lost long ago. Not useful flint, no good for axe or knife It’s played, so far, no part in human life. That time has come; I lift it from the floor And fling it at that yapping dog next door.