A feather washed ashore and stayed on land,
remaining a reminder of a flight gone wrong.
Above the waves some murmurations end
before they reach a place to sing their song.
A shell is waiting to be seen, a hand
will pick it up, a treasure found among
debris. So much the sea gives to the strand;
this shell, though, has been dead for very long.
From where I watch the waves foam on demand,
no life seems present, yet the sea moves on,
the clouds mourn on this funeral event,
the smell of salt decay is very strong.
So all seems dead that comes ashore from sea,
but still it makes the best of gifts to me.