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Currajah

[a Walleah Press blog]

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.