After that millennium of the toss and wash of the waves.
Chipping off the sharp angles of this stone.
Eaten smooth by the grit of the sand.
I am now a shiny smooth pebble.
A sea memory.
Ready to be tossed upon the foreshore.
Ready to be sorted and graded,
By the push pull of the ebb
And flow of the moon pulled tides.
Those still bigger, below me by the tide line.
Tiny ones above me amongst the flotsam and jetsam.
Now that I can be seen,
Do I have it?
That something to attract the eye.
That something that could move me onwards to new worlds.
As a specimen in a treasured collection,
Or in a garden with driftwood holding a open a door,
Or sold painted like a cat.
Can I compete against the shiny shells
And sparkling sea glass?
Attractive in the sunshine
But with little substance under the clouds.
Or am I to roll on here.
Reducing slowly,
To join the high tide line of rubbish.
