STRIKE

Once twice thrice
A hundred times
A thousand trials
Then he lost count
The stones were too rough
The stones were too smooth
The stones were too small
The stones were different
The stones were no good
He shivered as he squatted
He shivered from the fear
He shivered from the cold
His hands were scratched
His hands were bleeding
He struck repeatedly
Struck stone against stone
Struck a sliver of hope
That struck itself off each time
Until he struck gold
When the spark licked itself
Spluttered and flamed out
And roared its head of yellow yellow fire