Come, I know where the sea-glass is
sorted to size and weight by waves
whose voice will fill you –
‘Sh-ore, sh-ore, sh-ore,’ they say with long vowels,
the sea-glass like drops of frozen lemonade.
‘Bladderwrack,’ I say, wanting the sound of it,
salty in my mouth.
Come with me, and I’ll show you where
the chalk that once was shells, laid dense,
crumbles to the sea, which calls it back
with its moon, dune, spume insistent voice –
‘You belong, belong to me.’
© Caroline Fox Betts 2010