I was the sort of kid who always
Had several rocks in my pockets
Over time I must have picked up
Quite a large number of them
Carrying them about for a while
Putting them in boxes or drawers
Or releasing them into the wild
In a sheltered space so that
They'd be safe from predators
And folks who think it a fair joke
To send a rock skipping back
Through the water it had escaped.
My sister's godmother once
Brought me a stone she'd picked up
In Christ Church meadow. She said
It would resent being called a rock.
Somehow, I now have two of them
Each claiming it remembers Oxford.
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