Cowries

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