On the shingle-driven beach
I looked for shells
but found plastic

We are no more the guardians
because everything we use returns

The indicant we leave
is a tide mark of oil

As kids we looked
for rare treasures
after the height of waves
had retreated away

Mermaids’ Purses
and seaweed

our weather stations

The currency of beachcombing
is no longer nature’s ways

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