Even the Paving Stones of Cambridge


Even the paving stones have lain so long
they have a voice–repetitious, as one might expect,
but informative, and not otherwise what one anticipates.
Granite speaking sounds so like little birds
one looks a long time at the empty air.

This morning they are gossiping of the lords
who rode upon them, how they could tell,
through the horses’ hooves-- hesitant, distracted,
panicked under the bells and satins–
that all was not as it appeared.

Stones, however disguised, still unmistakably themselves,
pity this. They tell of the barons and viscounts
puking their guts into the gutters
after too much mirth, and being,
despite all their bravado, too young.

This explains, I think, the tinge of pink,
the rosy sub-glow in the solemn stone.
“Come,” they murmur to the drunken geniuses.
to the reeling captains of the time to come,
“unload, release, be purged. Trust those
who’ve seen the worst to understand.”