Shells Started It

SHELLS STARTED IT my brain is lackadaisical it does not want to think put words together find a theme. my eyes wander petulantly about the room like a lost bird looking for a place to lite a nest of soft moss to dream. let my dreams do the work I choose the shells stacked in vases my thoughts wash over them like the sea they sing of poor drown sailors. Dylon Thomas visits my thoughts with Rosey Probert and the sea captain blind, remembering her delights naming those he left behind in Davy Jones the shells carried me there into his poem Under Milk Wood but all I see is the sea and the captain hauled up on shore like an old boat. they sing in tinkling sand scraping voices the long dead shells shined between fingers trying to grab the feeling of the sea with gull skimming waves and foam rumoured to be unicorns trying to return at last to the green land. my thoughts are moon-calf now totally drawn away from my mind sailing free beyond me, leaping through the foam and blue of sky or sea.