A nothing-out-of-the-ordinary sort of day, Feeling neither especially happy, nor in a melancholy way. But I wonder if someone who’d walked the path that I took then, Had felt the grey of sadness, was lonely, and that is when They thought of others who may be adrift and out of reach; So, they sat down near the lapping shores of this stony beach. They thought about the love they’d known, perhaps the love they’d lost. The people who had come and gone and how their paths had crossed. Perhaps they’d wandered along the shore and looked far out to sea And thought of all the people who would tread that shore like me. Then I wondered if they too have had a day or week that was Not so very kind to them. Or maybe it’s because They wanted to remind each one who came across that stone, That there would always be a friend for them, they’d never be alone; But like the million stones that fill the space down to the shore, A million people pass you by, but each of you ignore The face you see, for no one looks beyond their sight, to seek concealed truth, To find out what is being hidden; no one’s interested in proof. But I wonder what the chances are of a message being read, A message on a pebble where someone thoughtful said, “Be happy, remember there are people out there who love you”. I wonder if they wrote it because they felt they really had to. Perhaps they felt unloved themselves and thought that it would be A friendly gesture reaching out to those who might just see That single pebble on the beach where a million others lay, Pilled up high from shore to cliff face skirting round the bay. I mean what are the chances of finding that one stone Lying there with all the others, not a bit alone, Surrounded by so many more, their size and shapes unique, It still was just a single stone I found beneath my feet. And even though I could have kept that stone, I left it there For someone else who needs reminding love is everywhere. Which made me think, perhaps the author wanted us to know They are one of a million messages written on a stone.
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Sophia MoseleyIn the same way a moth is drawn to the light, I cannot resist the call of the word. Archives
June 2026
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