Flint

The most obdurate substance
Ever Man dug from earth's crust.
Dull as a fist when extracted:
Cloven — glossy as water
Clean as cut glass
Black as a bog.
Strike it for fire, not for music.
As well I make a song out of grief,
Knit coats out of nettles.

Yet there were men long ago
That stubbornly, grimly, worked at the stuff
To make arrows and spears
Slim as a leaf
And as gracious. Others
Piled lump upon lump
Of a strange dark splendour. Some
Even fashioned a dwelling.

Surely then, something may come
Even yet
From this obdurate grief?