Beachcombing

is a special pleasure.

Turning over a shell

with a sandalled toe,

inhaling the acrid stink

of ocean kelp.

I love how the breakers

detonate and chase my toes,

how the sandflies skip

amongst a seagull carcass.

I stoop to gather some

pebble green sea glass

buffed by the surf;

I turn it in my fingers.

It is a prize.