By Vita Forest
In our own worlds
Looking at the hidden worlds in the water
In the pools left by the sea.
Balancing, bending, picking, choosing, rubbing rocks through finger tips
Standing in a field of shells
Shards of glass rubbed smooth by the sea
The helmet of a crab
The tail of a lobster
Beads of seaweed
Chunks of golden sponge
Hefted lightly in my hand.
Pockets percussive with clattering collections
Watching monumental molluscs move
Millimetre by millimetre
Twisting paths over black boulders
Water winking in the indents of rocks
Reflecting the sky, the clouds, the light, the face peering down to the flash of opalescence deep down amongst the dark
Warrigal greens sprawling over black stones
Balls of raindrops rolling on the leaves of nasturtiums
Looking back at the rearing hill with its indents of cow hoofs and the chatter of hidden birds
Saving them, holding them til I reach pen and paper, like a handful of sea-smooth stones.