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Fossiling

On Chesil Beach the turning tide is clear,

Even the thrash and push cannot conceal

The rolling pebbles underneath the waves

Which churn like jewels in the midsummer sun.

Yet picking up each perfect form they dry

And dull as if removal from that nether world

Of sea and shore, halfway between each,

Yet home to neither - like Schrodinger's cat -

Forces choice and so kills off the life

Which only blossoms when in constant flux

Between the two uncompromising worlds

Gringing against each other to produce

          The perfect smoothness which each pebble knows

          Ensures survival and a beach which grows.

Brian Hick August 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 12.9.23