Poetry
The Weight of Small Stones
Topher Shields
issue five
after the estuary—at dusk
At dusk the sailboat drifts past the estuary—
sails breathe salt and distance.
I count the gulls like lost intentions,
each wing a quiet arithmetic.
A child drops a stone; ripples bloom
into Piha’s hush,
where sky forgets itself.
Someone hums a hymn with no words—
the tune almost remembers me.
The marsh grass leans, listening.
Light trades places with water.
I pocket what the tide returns:
one smooth stone—
still wet with twilight,
small enough to keep me honest.
About the Author
Topher Shields is a poet from Aotearoa New Zealand whose work traces the sacred fractures between silence, ritual, and inheritance.
His poems appear or are forthcoming in Puerto del Sol, The Shore, The Bangalore Review, Cathexis Northwest Press, Tangled Locks Journal, The Dewdrop, Half and One, and Hip Pocket Press (Canary Winter 2025–26).
Leave a Reply