The prompt words over at 3WW are approach, bottle and smooth.
As I lay in bed and let my mind clear in the dark, the story came to me. Dark and delicious and a killer ending. A few scribbled notes in the notebook and I fell asleep. And dreamt the story. Over and over again.
Somewhere around 3 a.m., awake and thinking, I decided that it wasn’t quite right for 3WW. Something just said “No.”
So I came up with a bit of cobbled poetry instead.
A bottle pitched by a lonely mariner,
green glass, a note held fast by cork,
a message of devotion o a long-ago mistress.
The bottle washed ashore on distant lands,
smashed to bits by time and tides,
its contents now just an old man’s memory.
The constant approach of sand, the epoch of time,
shaped the varied shards to polished emeralds,
bits of beach agate buried like plundered treasure.
Her bare feet feel the tickle of salty surf,
a bit of green plucked from grainy sand,
the smooth orb cool in her cupped palm.
Silver wire twined to hold the orb tight,
a length of silver chain across her ivory throat,
An emerald amulet born of love – and time.
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