The sea
prints itself
on the conch, its white spiral
pod casting seeds
like a net
on the sand when the water
breaks good news
of arrival.
The father finds the conch
alive on the sandbar
and shows it
to his daughter,
black foot, shell varnish.
Later how it will empty
its sound into the child's ear
whirring like the sea in a dream,
coming past the sand to sweep
its living life,
good news, good news.

Miriam Callaghan