Poem: A sonnet to Shell

Today I walked alone along the sand

And stooped to pluck a perfect, shining shell

From where it lay, borne shoreward by the swell

Of tumbling waves. I held it in my hand

And marvelled at its perfect symmetry.

Colours so soft, so smooth, yet hard of face,

Spiralling downward into a secret place.

Home to a soft-shelled creature of the sea,

Impervious within; how could it know

What beauty lay beyond? Or even care?

Such sadness to live and die not knowing where

Lay the courage to venture forth; to grow.

Like you, my Shell, sweet daughter, sister, friend.

Did you know you were worth loving at the end?

Wendy Clarke

This poem was written for Michelle Louise Clarke,
beloved daughter, confidant and friend,
who was born on 25th June 1974
and died on 22/9/2000.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Most of my poems are started and finished the same day, though I might make a few changes afterwards; but this one took me a long time to write. I started it on the 29th of September, a week after Michelle died, but too much anger crept into my first attempts, and I didn't want it to be reflected in my poem. And yes, I was angry - very angry that someone who had so much going for her, and so many people who cared about her and wanted to help her would choose to just throw her life away like that.

In some ways, too, I think she's better off out of it. When she became hooked on drugs she developed a genius for taking up with people who treated her badly - horrifically so in some cases, so her life wasn't a happy one. The truly sad thing is that it didn't have to be that way.

I'm over that now, though. She tried, but she didn't have the strength to overcome her addiction, and in some ways we've learnt a lot from having her in our lives. Because she was always part of our lives. We never closed the door completely on her, no matter what. In fact, she was my technical advisor for my character Melissa in my novel.

I told her once that I'd throw her ashes out at the tip if she died of anything but natural causes; that if she had no respect for her own life and her body, then why should I? Of course, I didn't. We scattered them at sea where the dolphins swim off Suttons Beach, along with a bouquet of irises, her favourite flower. But I was still mad at her. Mad as hell!