Has there been enough rumination?
Is the sand just right, a first fine tickle,
then the only grit on which to dwell?
Has there been enough submersion,
enough of worry’s calcified abrasion?
Wave after wave of inky swell,
is the imagined real inside the rocky shell?
Tides return and return again
scouring the silt for wonder.
Tearful ritual, cool catharsis,
beneath the moon’s realised gleam
the search for lustre:
something come of darkness,
something made of dream.