Pace the sandy shoreline of Cape Breton,
Like musing philosophers hoping to express,
A sentiment in words they chance upon.
Their aim is to glean some shining moment,
From the detritus coughed up by the Atlantic tide,
The mounds of smooth pebbles and seashell fragments,
Washed-up seaweed and kelp, slimy or dry.
To find a sun-caught shard, clear or creamy white,
Lantern green, cola brown, or rare azure blue,
They scrutinize the beach with granular sight,
And bend as if gathering drops of crystallized dew.
They are women absorbed in walking meditation—
A practice known to Buddhists for centuries;
Measured breath, measured step and contemplation,
Unacknowledged members of an ancient sorority.
They walk to leave behind, for a time, chores,
Their men, children, the world; and return to themselves,
The treasure they comb from the ocean shore,
Lies beyond jars of colour displayed on kitchen shelves.
Sea glass is as much imagined as it is real,
A product of the spirit and nature’s artful way,
To beautify used bottles from the town’s old landfill,
Polished and palmed like beads for praying.
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