Marta had nothing

She might call her own

Her ragged blue dress

Was what white folk

Had thrown.

Her bed was just straw

Wrapped by old filthy rags,

Her pillow was sawdust

In hessian bags.

She could not own the veldt

Or the wind

Or the Sun,

And the stars and the moon

Were for most everyone.

One day by the river

She found

A round stone

And thought to herself

That this she could own.

It was grey, with red flashes

It was smooth all around

It felt like a treasure

That Marta had found.

It felt like the friend

That she'd never had

It made her feel warm

And it made her feel glad.

She would make it her own

And show it her love

It just might be a sign

From the white God above.

                                         _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Owain Glyn