PARABLE OF THE STONES

for Mikey Smith (1954-83)

Night: the moon unhinged in its socket of light. The lane unraveled beneath

the soles of his boots.

If he had been from the wrong side of town or was humming the wrong tune,

if he had lingered too long waiting for the bus or should have steeped his tea

two minutes more before closing the front door,

if he should have said more or less of what he knew,

known more or less of what he did,

could this night be changed?

The storey is always the same,

must unfold the same way:

beginning and ending

with the lane, the moon,

stones littering our path.