He is old,

cracked.

Every day he

walks the shores.

Following with his feet the

ebb and flow of the chasing tide.

Curling over, he bends gently

and reaches for the most

beautiful treasure.

The shell,

he is white and cracked

and tossed from countless shores

by an unfriendly, unseen force, moving him,

moving him on and on and on.

Endless journey, trials and thrills

as the wave lifts him

and the crest

falls

and he is hurled against rocks

or embraced by the surf

or laid upon soft sands

or thrown into the hurricane wind.

Old shell,

your journey ends as

the old gatherer places you gently

in his pocket.

He sits beside you in the sand,

before the sea,

shoulders hunched,

clasping his knees,

the waves caressing his feet.

Somebody's treasure ...