Just Stones

Just Stones

Stones,
Just stones.
Placed one upon another
By who knows who.
Who cares?
Not I.

I care about the people.
Loving, working, struggling,
Facing the world.
Living, breathing,
Not yet dead like those
Beneath the stones outside.

There were people here too you know,
A thousand years gone,
When Athelstan charged his thegn
To feed the paupers till the day of doom.
No stone then, just wood
For the houses, the church, two mills,
The meadows, and the woods
where 20 hogs ran.
Forty-eight families here,
The Domesday men said.

Stones came later
For house and church,
And rector monks
Who walked the parish to their flock,
Wept in plague,
And joyed in births.
They buried sailors
Drowned in storms,
Marked by a cold black stone.

Later still came lords and ladies
With a great house
And a private pew.
Judges and admirals
Soldiers, aldermen.
And Kenworthy Browne
With Faith at his side,
Riding his pony and trap
To Chandlers Ford, Chilworth,
Bassett and Pointout.
Making schools for children.
Finding food for the poor.

The big house is gone now —
Not one stone upon another.
Yet these stones remain.
Can any man say why?

There was another man
Born in a wooden shack.
No stone marks his grave…
But one that rolled away so
Death itself might die.
A foundation stone,
The stone for the corner.
A stone for the falling and rising of many.
A just stone,
Love itself.

His is the name
for whom these stones were raised,
His the name
that gave the builders hope and fired their hearts.
His the love that called them to himself.

Stones
Just stones.
Placed one upon another
But I know why.
Does anybody care?
Aye, say I.