I could have stayed home

And cleaned up the mess

The grandkids left behind

I could have stayed home

Changed the bedding

Laundered the sheets

I could have done the washing up

Hoovered the lounge

I could have, should have,

Washed the kitchen floor.

Instead, I have come here

To this beach.

A cold wind blows, gently.

A low sun spreads a glinting softness

Across the water, the shingle, the white line of distant B and Bs

And still further, to the snow,

A shining finger resting

Along the top of the Downs.

I'm collecting stones for a project.

There are a million, billion, trillion stones

On this beach.

I have chosen eleven to take home.

Five small, flat, round ones

Black, white, mud brown.

Six slightly larger, elongated ones,

Mainly white (the ones that look

Like miniature dinosaur bones)

I was looking for striations

(Because I like the word)

But those stones were not the right shape.

The eleven stones are in my pocket now.

The tide is out.

Herring gulls make themselves at home

On flat, weed covered rocks recently revealed.

A dog rushes toward me, tail wagging,

As if I might be an item of interest.

He sniffs my hand and races away.

There are many items of interest on this beach today.

Yes, I could have stayed home.