I found my poem while climbing King’s Point,
Suitably named,
With seagull monarchs and barnacle disciples
That cling to its side with undying allegiance.
It was amongst its stone stoic presence
That I beheld a dull glimmer in a tidepool,
One fragment that I hastened to the water below-
Skipped over the congregation of sand dollar stones,
Onward towards the seething shore,
At which the salt-scorched air ensnared my senses.
There I crouched,
Seaglass in tow,
Bare feet brine-bathed
Cradled it with clasped hand,
Tethered it to land
While the sea pleaded and tugged
With frothing hands,
Childlike,
At my prize.
It was but a shard,
Mottled mermaid green,
It’s frosty shell disclosed its years at sea.
I sat on the beach,
Turned it over in my palms,
And wondered how it came to be.
Who held this bottle in their hand,
Let it slip through their fingers,
Splinter upon the spine of a stone?
Who watched the ocean claim
What was jagged, definite, brazen,
Who watched the ocean tame
That lustrous emerald glass,
Subdue it with nought but patience?