The Sea Bugle

I walked alone along
	the gray running sea,
Just out of its pouring grasp,
	wandering to find the answer
To words yet never said.

The sun hung full noon
	and often touched the peaked waves
With a sharply burning glint.

Thus I stepped the tan virgin sand,
	untread  since the last reaching tide
And this act made me a pioneer of sorts,
	discovering some far new crashing world.

I paused in stride and knelt
	to pick a shell or two;
Snached them right from
	the seawave's fumbling hold.

They were not alike, for one was 
	perfect as sea shells ever were,
With the full pink spiral
	winding a magic whirlpool out
To the cave, empty, at its gaping end.

The other, less good, had
	suffered a harder fate,
And four deep holes,
	burned by boring parasites,
Marred its smooth bending curve
	and a broken place
Had opened up the small peaked end.

This fault did allow me
	to blow into that sea tossed shell
As I would a fine brass bugle
	and then I surprised even myself
As a full bold note called out
	to answer back the roaring sea.

I blew again to prove some point
	and then once again for glee'
Satisfied, I laid them back
	to rest together in the sand.

Side by side, I considered
	their form and reconsidered all of
Their differences.

This was perfect
	and that was not
But only one could be used to call the sea.

I left the shells
	far behind
To return to wave
	and be battered
Back to the dust.

Sometimes I hear 
	that clear calling note
Sound forth from
	some dark coil of
My mind.

Then I consider where
	my journey lead
And what the bugle said
	And I wonder if I got
An answer
	to a question.



Graham Kendall