I think, of how -
You felt the sand grains,
Move and shift,
Beneath your feet.
Great rocks, grown smaller -
Into pebbles, smaller still,
Have come to settle,
In this small bay.
Mighty continents sprawl,
Between your toes,
Worn down over time,
And yet -
When, in furnace placed,
The dull yellows, the browns,
Transform, and become like glass.
Becoming not darker,
By time and pressures hand,
But clearer still, and reflective -
A beauty created,
A clarity obtained.
Kevin Brown © 16.10.2016