A flotsam of pebbles and shells
she’s gathered on our window sill –
they’re from strands and shores
we’ll have found time
to idle on, browse
for mementoes of summer.
Forgetful of each occasion,
they won’t take us back
to where, looking down,
she found mother-of-pearl,
or striated
curiosities
of granite, flint and jet –
yet on some cold morning
we might be close enough
to interrupt ourselves
with rough textures,
banded colours
accumulated over years.
