FRIEDA HUGHES reads "Stonepicker"

She is scooped out and bow-like,
As if her string
Has been drawn tight.
But really, she is
Plucking stones from the dirt
For her shoulder-bag.
It is her dead albatross,
Her cross, her choice,
In it lie her weapons.
Each granite sphere
Or sea-worn flint
Has weight against your sin,
You cannot win.
She calls you close,
But not to let you in, only
For a better aim.
~
From "Stonepicker"