In the shine of the shell,
polished as porcelain,
I see reflections of history.
Here come the scouring men,
chilled by the ocean breeze,
gathering the husks into
bags, clinking together
like coins.
From humble beginnings,
out of the surf, come the countless
ancestors of currency,
their unyielding domes
echoing together in a chain,
passed from hand to hand.
The muddled surface
swirls like a thundercloud,
both beautiful and dangerous
to the cultures that carried these wonders,
shell of an alien creature,
yet embodying humanity, as seen in
my eye reflected back at me.
Éamon Laughlin