& the rest is silence

by Geoff Daniel

a common whelk:
the sort of shell
you can tell a child
to find an ocean in,
to put an ear to for
the distant shore, the far surf
breaking in the inner turns;    

and on the beach here
in the litter at the edge -
more of them, but broken,
scattered by tides,
battered in the cold salt,
sheered, ground down

to the scheme within:            
an ampersand;
a treble clef;
the opened secret of
the chamber of its heart,
prefiguring silence.