driftwood curiosity.

The window sill was full of junk.

Arranged in some sort of pattern were miscellaneous finds.

The objects were certainly curiosities.

The objects were perhaps memory aids.

The objects were perhaps an artist's exhibition.

There were no legends to explain.

We will have to assemble our own meaning.

The collection certainly attested to a love of nature.

In no apparent order there were:

Collections of shells.

Broken clock mechanisms.

Pebbles from a beach.

An asparagus fern.

A driftwood stallion.

There was nothing of any saleable value.

The objects were beyond value.

Shall we call it a treasure chest of scrap?

Shall we call it an animistic shrine?

Here lies buried, a story-teller's hoard.

For today, I shall keep the plot simple.

I will not weary you with interpretation.

I beg your forgiveness.

I don't suppose you will see interest here.

I don't suppose you will see value here.

How can one be attached to a piece of driftwood?

I am content you see no value.

I see myself standing on a beach.

You have left me quite alone.

Objects are washed up by the ocean.

Something catches my eye.

I bend down to pick it up.

It will spin my yarn a while.

Gulls' cry in the wind.

There is a strong smell of brine.

Waves crash on the shore.

Pebbles drawl.

I am home.

[first published October 26th, 2014, touches of sense…]