Children at the Birth

Confronted with the hidden
Wish to make some saying thing,
They couldn’t even say what,

They rolled the remaining bit
Of cut-away cylinder
From palm to palm in each hand,

So pleasant, four crisp corners,
The stone’s slightly oily feel,
The way the rich red rubbed off

Little smudges in their palms,
Which fit the stick of ochre
Better than adults’ hands had

Who had carved it down to this
Curing hides, using the ends
To cheetah-mark gaunt faces.

The children tried to make it
Do something else, something new,
Something they could do with it.

They picked up a thorny twig
From a corner of the cave
And settled, backs to the wall,

And started to scratch the soft
Stone with the points of the thorns,
Two lines matching the edges,

Then two criss-crossing lines, then
Two more crossing next to them,
Then another longer line—

Just scratching away, no one
From the hearth calling to them,
Low sun angling the cave mouth,

The long day sliding away.
Finally, they dropped the piece
And wandered off. A good day.