We are from the sea, of the sea;
living on an island we’re surrounded
by sea. We swim in it, sail on it,
build defences against it,
listen to it in shells.
Where we clambered that day there was
shingle washed by centuries of ocean;
like panned gold with amber and jet.
The children drizzled it through
small fingers – treasure from a chest.
A dead man’s chest.
We found what remained of him
on Chesil beach, buried by the sea,
come from the sea. Not a whole
skeleton, just his lower jaw set with
a few loose, brown teeth.
At the Museum, the curator
dismissed the idea of carbon dating.
‘A young adult male’ he said.
‘You should report this to the police.
He might be a missing person’.
We didn’t: we took him back home
from his beach burial.
We put him on the book shelf. We
look at all that is left of him and
wonder what else the sea holds.