A Peach Stone Unearthed Poem by Mark Heathcote

Each in their own, Gardens of Eden
noted wild winds, footpaths descending cliffs,
craggy outcrops smoothed to a polished jade
transparent-markings marble-lipped made.
Where bars of strobe moonlight enter
and in snaking calligraphy, dances
shadowboxes, in between the ropes and bells
here they've been prone to hang up lifejackets
their hats and take on irreparable bets,
even some winning chances, perhaps.

Imagine this thrown the thrown of the universe
but the wind's breath at times recoils them back
tips their crowns; empties their royal sacks
in its waylaid-track, soft-tissue crevasses
they've undiscerningly listened, fearful
but clinging sometimes, they've climbed the pinnacle
of what they can never claim to flag,
conquer, or truly come to understand.
And that each one of us is a Garden of Eden,
a peach stone unearthed buried in the sand.