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MARINA DEEGAN

 

Shell Diary

 

All that pounding
could have worn it
away, each wave
a harder blow,

so many
unwanted mesages,
surface stonewashed
grey and brown,
tattoo bruises calcified.

Instead it endured,
a hand spanning untold ages,
bony fingers fused
in an arched position.

I recognise the scars,
the survivor's tale:
tiny white lines
scored over time,
witnessing the days, waiting.