Shell fragments, strewn on shore, in war,
munitions after tank attack,
aquarium, at last, sort out,
yet these squirls, perfect whorled in shape.
They talk of pearls, rare precious grit,
forget geometry, a round,
mirror of maths far set from site;
but magnified, I’m less convinced.
Here’s salt we scatter, throw from pot,
a condiment, both shaken, swirled,
or scattered on the ice to thaw,
how can this peppered shower be summed?
That mush equated on the ground –
trodden under foot, the quote –
I take it with a pinch of doubt,
like the pillar, Lot’s wife turned.
But, like sweet sugar in a cube,
I have to face it, crystalline,
that dried out brine, taxed from the earth,
as Gandhi knew and fed the strike,
mined by the slaves of yesteryear –
bears all the marks of cuboid form,
sodium, flavoursome chloride.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Poetry Potion.
His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/