Shells crackling, a handful picked and pressed,
spirals and rocks and tiny perfections of erosion
digging in to the unyielding sand of my palm.
No home here.
Rolling in hesitant tide by tide,
picked over, flooded and tumbled,
they land here, travellers too,
an ocean edge to a horizon blurring into infinity.
All sharpness worn,
the sea echo beaten out
past fin and under gill,
push and drag and roll until
the tiniest of achievements, their purpose fulfilled.