I believe I will die a bent and wizened shape
in a contorted body frame
it is because of gravel gravel and shell
when I was a young boy the gravel
at the roadside from the blue-metal and bitumen edge
to the gutter and the adjacent footpaths
was taken from the banks of same local creek
that wound its way through the granite gorge
that ran down through the woolshed valley and connected
with the waters flowing through the old el dorado
gold field gem stone creeks one and all
I walked everywhere in those times
with the characteristic posture of a pedestrian fossicker
hunched shoulders and head leaning forward eyes to the ground
I was a collector of gem stone crystals
and possessed a great cardboard box full of ‘clears’ and ‘smokeys’
cut-glass inner surfaces rough rock exteriors
all to be had at the cost of keeping an eagle eye peeled
and watching where I walked what was beneath my feet
I lost all my crystal treasure
misplaced somewhere between my adolescence and adulthood
but I still remember the thrill of unearthing
an innocuous rough rock protruding innocently enough
from the road verge
until forcibly removed by scrabbling kicking and gouging
to reveal the reflective smoothness of hidden facets
to hold it against the sun to prove the degree of transparency
I’m older now in the city by the bay
I walk for my health and an overweight condition
I am not a shell collector no truly I am not but
I like to examine them pipis and snails that leave patterns
in the sand beneath the shallow waves
then wash up empty on the sand fragments of fan
occasional urchin balls sans prickling spines
and lately abalone shell with its nacreous pink-tinged luster
everyone around here can find abalone shell no surprise in that
there was a whole industry based around it on the bay and the only fun
is in finding a shell whole as large as the palm of a hand
without holes worn by sand or broken from the action of tide
I have found variations minuscule versions no larger than a thumbnail
each one smaller than the rest and too deliciously fragile to be ignored
I am searching them now each night on the beaches of the bay
as I walk for the sake of my health
with hunched shoulders and head leaning forward eyes to the ground
for no good reason save the collection of small treasure
I believe I will die a bent and wizened shape
in a contorted body frame
it is because of gravel gravel and shell
© Frank Prem, 2002
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