Shells

in memory of Andrew McNaughtan, 1953-2003

Over the harbour coves today

the air feels thinner.

On the sand near Castle Rock

I pick up a faded purple shell,

its outer ridges gnarled

as an old boxer’s knuckles,

the inner surface

smooth as a sigh.

I’d put a note on his door,

“Call me urgently”,

but the house already felt like a shell.

He had no children

but the children of Timor.

It hadn’t rained for weeks

then, at the funeral,

torrents burst.

It won’t feel the same

going down to the bay.

I rub my finger over the shell,

comforting as Andrew’s smile

even when our despair

was deep as the harbour.