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Drift glass
In the palm of your hand
It ended up

This river glass
This sliver of glass
This drift glass

The colour of cataract

Water born
Tumble torn
Pebble worn

Specks of mud had got into it somehow

Look into it and there is a history there
For you to see
So much more so than in a diamond

The fingerprint of the hand that had made it
Long since lost to the river
As was that of the child that had drank from it

There now
In the palm of your hand
Cut free from time
And purpose
Yours

Andrew Griffiths
10th August 2009

More here....

Hi Calli,

Are you Andrew Griffiths? From your avatar and forum name I imagined you were a woman

I went to the website link you provided, and enjoyed reading your work – I particularly liked The Box and Jemima's Drawing; both are beautiful and evocative.

my apologies!!

I should have said that he ( Andrew ) is a close friend!!

Jemima and Tabbi are my daughters.

Thank you for your comments I will pass them on to him.

Drift glass II
The thick hand's fingers
Wrapped around the neck of the bottle
Like a ship's sea rope
And smashed it on a river rock

The hollow roar
Of the lost male
Trembled the crowd
As he used the jagged edges


As a tool to tear the flesh of another's face
And as that other screamed
With his thick blood oozing between his stiff and disbelieving fingers
The circle of crowd looked down

And those shards of glass were handed to time

And time took them
And used water
And stones
As tools to round the edges

And split them up
And shape them into each a single reflection of flow
Clouding them
Minutely etching the surface of them with grains of grit

For a perfect miniature of a gypsy's ball

Then a young girl picked one from the river's edge
And passed it to her Mother's hand
Which fashioned it
And rested it in a cradle of silver wire and rocked it

And made adornment

Andrew Griffiths
18th August 2009
http://andrewgriffiths3.wikispaces.com/Drift+Glass+II

http://andrewgriffiths3.wikispaces.com/Drift+Glass+II




Drift glass II
The thick hand's fingers
Wrapped around the neck of the bottle
Like a ship's sea rope
And smashed it on a river rock

The hollow roar
Of the lost male
Trembled the crowd
As he used the jagged edges


As a tool to tear the flesh of another's face
And as that other screamed
With his thick blood oozing between his stiff and disbelieving fingers
The circle of crowd looked down

And those shards of glass were handed to time

And time took them
And used water
And stones
As tools to round the edges

And split them up
And shape them into each a single reflection of flow
Clouding them
Minutely etching the surface of them with grains of grit

For a perfect miniature of a gypsy's ball

Then a young girl picked one from the river's edge
And passed it to her Mother's hand
Which fashioned it
And rested it in a cradle of silver wire and rocked it

And made adornment

Andrew Griffiths
18th August 2009