The Gift

Gift passing on

Mother of pearl,

Skin or scale

A slither of shell

Rivers of rainbow

coloured light

pinks and greens

like a hologram

as I move it

We all have the same.

Gifted from Tom

Scrumped from his life

Found on a beach?

Back of a shop?

A fragment of something

Separate, unidentified

He passes it on

This slither of beauty

As one does

An observation

Smoothed by the sea

of tidal age

We all become

as sand to dust.

The last jacket

has no pockets.

June 2014

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