It lies
entwined with the gull’s wing
in pink seastring
among polished shellflakes
where the dog inspects the ocean’s rip
and the children tag along.
It sits
beside you with the waves’ murmur
as ever-renewing current speaks
of voices long ago which said,
Here shall you go; no further.
And it hums
in the morning wind which blows
skeletal details
like tumbleweed over
the criss cross of the sand.
A gift.
The Consolations of Writing 