By Alice West, age 17, London
Stooping over a meadow of stones,
The stray
Shapes imperfect,
Shades variant,
My hands, they hoarded that day;
Gently, as with the tip of a feather,
I caressed each stone with color
Of pastel, bold, psychedelic, gold;
The sun licked the moisture dry
Before resting his head
And summoning the stars.
The rain fell as gracefully as dew,
And when I arose,
The pebbles washed clean,
Their puddle of bounteous hue.
