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A whelk shell on the bathroom windowsill
reflects modest colours curled twirled around
its helix. It takes me back to where I found
this gastropod with others dumped as spoil

over a bank behind a coastal shed.
In the waste of whelks my dear spaniel rolled.
The sticky mess adhered to fur and fold
and in the car the stink did fill my head.

Back home I set about with brush and hose
to clean my Silas of this grave offence.
Yet this made the smell yet more intense
as on both eyes and nose it did impose.

At the youth club some days later, two girls
had him in a sink to wash away the pong;
refreshed, this made the smell arise more strong
from deep within his coat and all its furls.

The shell I kept, from such foul smells now clear
holds memories of my companion dog.
Now to complete this with an epilogue
I dwell upon the shell, hold it to my ear

to hear the distant sea beneath whose swell 
that gastropod across the ooze once grazed,
growing this shell above the mud upraised
until the trawler's net its end did spell.

This creature's home now in my hand I feel
its helix holding these events through time
a small memorial here preserved in rhyme
as gathered thoughts; I hope they will appeal.

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