The seastacks stand tall above the tides
like Hellenic pillars sculpted each day
while a small seashell, dragged ashore, collides
with my bare foot as I walk upon the bay.
The seastacks have been proven through eons past
to endure Time’s erosive ebb and flow,
whereas the seashell shall never outlast
the night, broken with the sea’s careless catch-and-throw.
Yet, while I stand in the shadows of Time’s temple
I admire the quaintness of such short-lived creatures,
the shell at my toes being a thing seemingly simple,
yet taking eons to craft with such finite features.