Beachcombing. Reculver, Kent, March 2023

Fetch me a larger comb.

A multitude of treasures.

A shell, a stone, worn glass.

Each displays a story

Etched across its face.

Thousands of years of pain.

Adrift in foreign seas.

 

Pebble, so smooth and calm.

Is this your first beach

Or in 1838 did you wash up

In some scorched cove,

The southern oceans

Having ground you against

Those Nassau cliffs.

 

Tell me your history, shell.

Of inhabitants long dead.

A home not yet derelict.

But forlorn and alone

On a bathroom window sill.

Tomorrow I’ll return you

To your sandy grave.

 

 

Lynne Carroll

Reculver, Kent. Mar 2023

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