I found you rolling in the surf.
You look more akin to the moon.
A set piece from Thunderbirds.
I hope that dainty shell chose to wedge itself.
God only knows what you’ve been through.
You were heavy and waterlogged at first.
Now dried out, you rattle.
Hiss, when submerged.
How old are you?
Your craters only stare at me for answer.
© Tom Tide 2016