The Why of Shells

The where and when are lost in currents, cries
of sea-gulls, drying salt on sun-warmed rocks,
minute extrusion on a coral reef or sandbank,
unfathomed in the sweep of lighthouse beam.

The what is chinked in every childhood’s bucket
bent-for in the foaming waves around the toes
picked-out among the high-tide sea-weed debris
coned and swirled or clammed shut in protective pairs.

The how inborn within a cell-brained greyish slug
which carves the ridges, ripples, pastel shades,
without precision tools or jeweller’s eyeglass,
or pigment crushed from rarest beetles/sepals/gems.

The why starts well: with armour plating, shields,
the practicalities - falters and wavers before the why
of shape, the why of beauty. Whisper the question
to its cold and creamy curves. Put it to your ear and hush.