Competition

Third Prize

Bounty
by Julie Lynch

Wedged between tide-worn rounded rocks
Toughened by buffeting sea-water persistence
Is an eye-catching shell -a conch, large but damaged
Smashed splintery fragments and holes
Inside a curved arc of impervious bone-like shell
The colour of jaundice, tough yet brittle
A receptacle for shell grit, what passes for seaweed
And the odd miniscule scuttling sea-creature-
A leaky haven of passages, spirals and dead ends
Conch-like but... Wait!

Something about the deep amber colour of it
The twisting, turning shapes in it
The texture, hard yet marrowy
-Is it bone-like shell or shell-like bone?
Beckons further enquiry from this one inquisitive child

Stooping forward, freckled face attentive only to this,
He touches the smooth curved arc
Noticing the thicker texture, matt and sandpapery
And finds two holes for finger grips

Bracing one leg against a boulder,
Carefully, steadily he pulls,
Equilibrium for a time, then it's free!
Washing it empty of grit, weed and vagabonds
He lifts it like an offering -earthy, unadorned
To reveal a symmetry of shape and pattern

Wait!...A dip in the curve of the arc
Two eye-sockets, a nose-hole below them
And behind, a complexity of porous sails suspended
Exhilaratingly abhorrent to girly girls
Exquisitely beautiful to soft, boisterous boys

In an instant we are buffeted by the truth
It's a turtle skull, as large as a football
Ancient reptilian museum-piece
Connecting pre-history to present
Once alive, whole, flesh-covered,
Eyes that saw, keen sense of smell,
Then dead, putrid, rotting meat,
A frantic feast for flocks of squawking
Greedy-eyed gulls and scuttling scavengers.
Now, clean, empty, bare

Respectfully we ponder for a time
On this great creature's age, life, story
On what lone, sandy, faraway beach
It made its wondrous life-dash to the sea
Then a lingering silence -uncomfortable

Social propriety pulsates in our temples
I look at my middle child, the worrier,
I read it in his eyes before it takes shape-
The inevitable question
"Can I keep it?”
If it were a thing alive
The answer would be easy
But it's not
If it were a living thing
He would not have asked

But this is long dead, just a skull.
Can he keep it?
Can he?
It's innocent enough but
He hangs it there, in the air
Tangible as a comic book thought bubble;

The question mark poised like a coat hanger-hook
Screwed into the soft malleability of words
That pin us down with certain meaning
As soon as they are uttered
I find this as rhetorical
As Eliot's overwhelming question.
Do we dare? I am wedged
Between what is right, and what is fair
Is the answer the same?

Conscience, that annoying parrot,
Gaudy and persistent
Perches on my shoulder
Squawking quandaries in my ear
Do I? Do I dare?

My decision is made
I choose what is fair
And nod but cannot speak my acquiescence,
Avoiding his eyes and he mine
"Oh Boy!! Oh Boy!!" His lithe body sings.
His unleashed joy lifts me cleanly in its wake
To toss me lightly against
the soft, warm, reassuring sands of sense
And I know my choice is right, too
As he skips to hug me roughly

And since he's just an ordinary kid
Keener to own than to inherit
And knows nothing of Eliot and his question
He gathers up his trophy treasure
-Little brother transfixed with wide-eyed adoration-
Wraps it with care in his threadbare
Sand-peppered beach towel
Along with the memory of this day
And heads exuberantly homewards

There is this simple truth
We,
Each of us,
Own everything
And nothing

Since one day this freckle-faced,
inquisitive, soft
boisterous eleven year old
beachcombing boy will care far
more about inheritance than ownership
One day when Life's flotsam and jetsam
have tossed him real gifts
-wisdom, serenity, courage, love
he will return gently with this gift
-or the memory of it -
to this place
-or the memory of it
I am sure