Great, warm wet ocean rolling, curving, boiling cauldron.
Little grains of sand – brown, white, clear, black.
Thrown together onto the beach.
A small layer, a medium layer, a deep layer compressed into rock.
Hundreds of feet thick. Exposed to elements, rain, cold, wind, snow.
No warm carboniferous sun here. Just a windy plateau of a rock face.
Small am I in Nature’s World. One summer I climbed up
to an old beach and touched black rough rock.
So it was here? Where my hand is?
No ghosts haunt me, no spirits torment me. I understand.