By Rohan Scott
Over the rump of the windswept moor,
Shale crags kiss the sea.
Petrified within: the stone ghosts.
Along the cobbled shore
Cliffs crumble,
Amongst the cut pastry scree
These relics emerge.
I remember turning stones,
Plucking, discarding.
Excitement, disappointment.
At first, a fragmentary trace,
Shattered by chisel and mace.
Wonder and dismay draw like the tide,
Who recedes to reveal
I know what I’m looking for —
The perfect specimen, a galaxy like spiral.
Like a wading avian,
Sifting for stone cradles
On the shifting sands.
Time falls away
And light professes dusk.
I remember turning stones,
Plucking, discarding.
Excitement, disappointment.
Here! It must be this one.
I level the iron edge atop this stone,
I raise the hickory in an arc,
One fell swoop, cleaves it in half.
The perfect specimen, a galaxy like spiral —
An ammonite.