Saturday, 21 February 2009
The Shell by Mary Webb
What has the sea swept up?
A Viking oar, long mouldered in the peace
Of grey oblivion? Some dim-burning bowl
Of unmixed gold, from far-off island feasts?
Ropes of old pearls? Masses of ambergris?
Something of elfdom from the ghastly isles
Where white-hot rocks pierce through the flying spin-drift?
Or a pale sea-queen, close wound in a net of spells?
Nothing of these. Nothing of antique splendours
That have a weariness about their names:
But - fresh and new, in rail transparency,
Pink as a baby's nail, silky and veined
As a flower petal - this casket of the sea,
Sorry it's makeweight today. I have a poorly Lucy-cat, and her eye injury is getting worse so it looks like she will have to have an operation on Monday. I'm worried and a bit down about it, poor little girl.