These
Old Stones
(Lidice,
Czechoslovakia)
The stones of the valley
have tales to tell.
Otters leave wet prints,
sleek tails dusting the surface.
Coal-blackened feet pass over the stones
as men go down the pit.
Children skip over them
on their way to school.
The stones sense their laughter.
These stones saw everything.
Men lined up, shot,
blood and bullets
showering the stones.
The stones hear their cries.
Ornaments, rocking chairs and mirrors
splinter on the stones.
Stones twine with tree roots,
seek shelter in the earth.
Rainwater washes the stones,
yet they still remember.
The stones talk to each other:
pass it on.
Edwin Stockdale
If you have any comments on this poem, Edwin Stockdale
would be pleased to hear them.
