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per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

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we're fascinated, but at least one of our cats thinks it's satan...
Rock Tumbler

We've caught the sea in a small black drum-
A retort, rolling ceaselessly, replicating
The crash and churn of shoreside wave,
The busy scour of restless sands.
In it also the small enigmas we've gathered:
Dross from path and fill and building site;
Lumps gleaned from erosion's wake.
Chancing these dim, unregarded chunks
Contain a shine or glow or inward fire
Revealable by artifice and patience.
At night we must let it breathe-
Halt the turning, prise and worry the lid,
Gaze into a strangely glittery spume
Cloaking the transformation underway.