Cockle shells,
commoners of shore lines.
Over looked by
the discerning collector
as too ordinary,
rather mundane.

 

It seems to me
real beauty is often
over looked by those
too busy to see.

 

I would rather it was I
who decorated sand castles
with shells,
until they be-dazzled
all those grown up
presumptions,
put them firmly to rest.

 

Shall I wish for a cockle shell
to hold my pearl,
my beauty?
I could find myself a place,
a silver of fine sand
settle in comfort,
then just wait things out.

 

Is it that I've grown
too old for building
sand castles?
Do I lack judgement?
Maybe,  but I'll 
never, ever be too old
to hunt for cockle shells