Small world.

Pale hardness, a gallery so smooth

whose upward turning curves submerge

with swell of that resuming sea,

which swirls and skelters to the top.

Yet she who rides the sky

with that great pull and orders forth to ebb again,

so from this mollusc’s empty home

the brine does gurgle, every drop

to issue forth, meander back,

round black rocks burnished,

never stop.