I walk along the foreshore
at the side of Belfast Lough,
search through the stones
for ideal size and shape;
flat, round, just a little weight.

I wonder if the stones I find
are those I’ve found before,
washed up again
by movement
of the tide.

Each stone contains
a memory; I savour;
heft it gently
in my hand,
set it free,
watch it skim.

I count the skips,
still searching
for the perfect throw;
and as the stones
sink one by one
each memory recedes.