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
