beach grit
Eyes down, a mile of deserted beach to walk
up and back.
Two miles.
With the sun being at its obliging best,
glinting,
on this half-hidden jewellery of sand-scrubbed shell,
fragile, transparent.
Years of abrasion, and never a foot to crush them.
Beaches are best when they are deserted, left alone,
for centuries.
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![only surfers [think] they know the feeling](https://i0.wp.com/petebowes.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/laird.jpg?resize=40%2C40&ssl=1){kind=small}
petebowes.com 
There has been commentaring of the surf kind, way back, I read it. That if you have good session, you go back and pick up something from the beach on the way home to keep. Now, I understand Kelly could not have done that, his houses would be filled with shit, but I suspect, he may have something.
If Kelly was to be buried with them, he would have a pretty big Earth mound and rightly, he would become a pilgrimage. If not to steal his tokens. People burrowing in, wanting something that wasn’t theirs, that they haven’t experienced, not knowing its worth.
Just some beach grit.
aye to that, shank.