My own small world
Down to the shore with me today,
My rucksack on my back, with the water-
Bottle echoing the slap of the sea, and my tools
For netting beauty neatly packed in buckled pockets.
Stones, shells, flowers and leaves, wave-worn bones, pieces
Of broken pots, glass, jewels of man’s making that earth has made her
Own, smoothing them, embedding them in her soft flesh:
All went to build the little home I carried, which
Seemed to stretch outwards to the blue
Of sky and sea, the green of hills.
And over all, like the lofty
Apex of a cupola,
Sang a lark.
'Caracol' is the Spanish for snail.