Photo by Will Swann
Skimming Stones
Susan Darlington
The stone you skimmed
across the surface of the reservoir
chimed seven times before it sank.
“Do you want to be with me?”
you asked. I shrugged at your back
and twisted a leg off a water boatman.
“Do I have a chance with you?”
you tried, and I squeezed the insect
between thumb and finger until blood ran.
I said nothing and the stone said
I’d wait for you until the water
dropped to reveal the church’s bell tower,
the village’s cobbled streets
and market square that were damp
with the muddy footprints of our daughter.
You didn’t hear the words in the stone
and as the sun set over the water,
the eighth chime drowned our child’s laughter.
Susan Darlington
The stone you skimmed
across the surface of the reservoir
chimed seven times before it sank.
“Do you want to be with me?”
you asked. I shrugged at your back
and twisted a leg off a water boatman.
“Do I have a chance with you?”
you tried, and I squeezed the insect
between thumb and finger until blood ran.
I said nothing and the stone said
I’d wait for you until the water
dropped to reveal the church’s bell tower,
the village’s cobbled streets
and market square that were damp
with the muddy footprints of our daughter.
You didn’t hear the words in the stone
and as the sun set over the water,
the eighth chime drowned our child’s laughter.