To this day when I walk along the seashore I must pick up and examine the shells ( always pocketing one or two ). So I have a small collection in a flowerpot. however this small amount bears no relationship to the vast collection I had as a child. Using old 'chocolate' boxes I stuck my shells in and named them, then covered with plastic. These were stored under my bed ( along with the pupating caterpillars in shoe boxes ! ). Possibly my mother wanted them all cleared out and so my collection went to the science department at school.
Last year I walked down to the beach at Stranraer and it was composed entirely of cockle shells....millions upon millions washed up. I just sat for ages looking at them and pondering their life before they were cast ashore.
My poem this week was written at a workshop where I had to delve into a box , and without being able to see ( being blindfolded ) , extract an object , then still being blindfolded had to describe what I felt. So this is it ....
Unseen Shell
A worn winkle, color unknown.
Thin now with the wearing of the sea and sand.
Empty --sounding hollow when I tap.
Feel the sworls - the internal spiral
Going to a soft point
Where once a gentle creature lived,
Secure upon a rock - holding tight.
Gone now, lost to the sea
Whilst it's home lives on
As I tap, tap, tap.
Thank you for reading, Kath
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