Conch

On a windswept strand in Cornwall, where brass‑tarred far‑off ships make their own faint drum, there sits a shell of wax‑glazed, perfect round— a conch that feels the pulse of ancient foam.

Its ribs, like calloused maps of every tide, trace the ghostly pathways of a thousand miles. It holds the sea inside a fragile case, a quiet lantern for the deep where sirens smile.

When wind steals her voice, the conch exhales a breath of salt and old forgotten grace. It sings of pirate lore, a call to distant friends whilst waves in silver spray perform their art.

The gulls flutter, Swedish fishermen whisper in soft, cool breezes “fair wind, bold blue.” The conch, never idle, keeps its post with care, a monsoon‑wise watch on the ropes of blue.

For on this poetic archipelago, the shell besides mere shell, is memory’s keel— Hark, the sea speaks of Forgotten Ages, and the conch, our kettle, opens up the seal.