Bray Stones

Smoothest stones in the country are found in Bray,
Subtly crafted by the lapping waves, constant,
Rounding off the sharp edges and corners,
Perfect for spinning along the ocean’s cover.
A sign was erected denying access to these stones,
The last time I set foot here was with my father
Over ten years ago, on a sunnier day in simpler times;
I remember no sign stopping us that day, as we
Skimmed stone after stone across the sea’s surface
Like time would never end and the supply would
Never dry up, no matter how bright the sun above shone.
And I took one of these stones home, coloured it blue
With a marker I had, as if its hard softness did not
Make it unique enough to be worthy of sentiment.
My only other memory of that trip apart from today
Is of my father calling me as I wandered off on a tangent,
Back towards the train station, for no apparent reason.

Bray looks so different on a darker day, through adult eyes
And in a changed company of people - those stones now seem
So far away, as my friends prefer the allure of alcohol
And loop hole drugs to the plainer pleasure of stone throwing,
Even though those stones are the key to unlocking ease.
When spaced-out ossification is achieved, thieving machines
Are turned to in search of a time-killing buzz, with five cent
Coins thrown away in their twenties in return for five back
And a victory in falsified circumstance and programmed luck.
One look around and you can see the lives they have stolen
From the locals, some of whom are in their fifties and have
Been sitting in the same seats since their twenties, praying
In vain for the luck and the payoff to aid their never-to-be escape.
These machines play music all ‘round us, telling us who the
Big winners and losers are, which machines are paying out
And which are holding back, even though the system is always
Dominant over us land-locked folk who dream of sailing away.

(I went to Bray today - read what it made me think).