We leapt on pebble shelves, sliding down

clatter, rattle and snare. When we

jumped, our salty hair clung to our faces.

I will return to pound those stones,

embrace the bracing wind.

Those stones have rubbed shoulders for centuries

They have become smooth and kinder with age.

Turned and sniffed at by curious dogs.

Worn by generations of playful children.

Tossed, skimmed into the sea.