Mussel shells have always had a special magic for me. I think it’s their soft colour and the subtle sheen inside, and whenever I go to the beach I just have to collect at least one. And their shape – an animal lived in there once but now the emptiness of the shell is full of some sort of wonder like hope, like love. The basket in the porch where I keep them will never be too full.
voices from within
pull out the echoes
The misty morning sound of the sea over the stones on the small beach near my house curves over me as I make my way down. It is too damp to sit on the stones right now as the tide has only just begun to turn. The seaweed is bunched in lines of green and brown, squelches underfoot.
with each roll of foam
I’ll stay for a while and feel the cold mist on my skin.
I find three perfect blue shells for my hand. They smell of the sea and of mystery.