A Trolls Poem
The Smooth, flat stone I threw, skimmed the lake
seven times before sinking into the lake, where it
will be safe till the lake is drained.
Child of the black berg which was so lovely that
men with bulldozers came…and no more said;
now it is almost just another big hole.
You can call it an eye socket, watery, misty not
unlike the eye of an old troll re-reading a poem he
remembers from his youth.