For Emma
They rattle and clack like wet crabs in a string bag
or smooth pebbles in a net
or loose cobbles beneath a cartwheel
or pool balls in a stocking
or a fistful of peppercorns
or a cartload of cannonballs
or sand grains on a snare skin
or planets rolling round a star;
they sit in the snug heel of a catapult,
the snug belly of the damp earth,
the snug cheek of a belt pouch.
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