The Stone

'I am Lord Arglay,' he said. 'I wonder, Hajji, if you could spare me ten minutes. 'What is it in itself, I mean?' he urged. 'Yes, Miss Burnett told me its history—but what is it? Is it a new element?'
'I think it is the First Matter,' the Hajji told him, 'from which all things are made—spirits and material things.'
'Spirits?' Arglay said. 'But this is matter;' he pressed a finger on the Stone.
'Matter to matter,' Ibrahim answered, 'but perhaps mind to mind, and soul to soul. That is why it will do anything you ask it—with all your heart. But you must will truly and sincerely.'
-- Charles Williams, Many Dimensions

One from the back catalogue for a change, from 1st March 2005. Inspired by "Many Dimensions" by Charles Williams (one of the Inklings), this is one of my more mystical poems.

The Stone

The white stone was without blemish:
Mystics spun within, whirling dervish;
Inset once in the Crown of Solomon:
Whispers in the dark of Zoroastrian;
Worn by Magi upon a sacred quest,
A glowing repository of final rest;
Then it vanished from history until
A new Empire rises, it is there still;
Charlemagne wore it as centre piece
Of his Crown, and it brought peace,
But it was lost, after his death, when
Divided, his Empire fell, stone lost;
Sought by the alchemists at any cost:
The One Type, from which all came,
A Seeing Stone, reveals Earthly frame;
Afterwards only lesser Types appear:
The Crystal used by the Scrying Seer,
Mirror of Dark glass, and each reflects
Only in part, as the Type within effects
Fragments of sight, not full as the Stone
That once adorned all Wisdom’s Throne.