The art of whimsy
On kilo meters of beaches
Full of pebbles and shells
The collector’s hand reaches
For what wind’s whisper tells
At the most tender brush
A rock turns porcelain
Each object a promising hush
Of the next great treasure plain
The seagull’s grey feather
A tiny fairy’s bed
Pull the vision strings together
Does it carry outside the head?
At times the collector stumbles
Some fairytales cannot be told
Remain inaudible mumbles
But capture a brief glimpse of gold
















