The largest stones are piled against the sea-wall
since that huge storm, a hundred years ago.
For the sea will never leave the beach alone –
might you think it would fling
the smallest stones the furthest?
No – to re-assert its power,
it challenges the heftiest resistance,
with inexhaustible, ruthless determination
rolling, thrusting, flinging in impatient storm
the largest, furthest; then grading with such patient delicacy
over the years, the smooth but fine-scratched stones
of so many colours – how can it have found,
how long for it to find, so many lucent colours of wet stone?
These sometime finds – searching with a child’s fine eye –
of purest  pebbled marble - how many thousand miles
has the sea rolled these from southern shores?
And these smooth stones of reddest brick,
or rubbed, etched glass? Or ancient serpentine,
bright green?
Then after a night of wildest storm,
the air intoxicating with its ozone,
new treasures thrown up on the beach:
green glass globes from fishing nets,
cork mats, boat wood, torn seaweed
in thick chunks like beached, exhausted octopods;
the beach re-shaped; even some parabolas of sand
while the seethe… keesh… of the dying storm
draws incessantly, then spews the finest shingle
in its maw like a hungry concrete-mixer.
The beach spreads out its shining, wet
new treasure for the child-bright eye.
This afternoon, the rock pools will be full;
all will be new; sea-god a child again.