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.
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