He cut against the grain,
It's hard,
Unnatural,
And the splintered shapes,
Don't feel the same,
As the smooth,
Pebbles on the beach,
Or the stonemason carving,
A worn foible or copper farthing.
They feel friendly and warming,
And don't rub up the wrong way,
Like a prickly child in play.
But maybe there's rough and smooth,
All thumbs in snogger's booth,
He's playing a game of attitude,
Bending with compliance,
And just enough defiance.
