At the bottom of our limestone cliffs,
In a great heap on the sand.
Is where they tipped the waste glass,
From the foundry on the land.

Over many years the rough seas,
Have ground it really smooth.
As it is washed along the shore,
By the east tide on the move.

People looking carefully,
For beach glass as they roam.
Popped in a plastic bag,
And proudly taken home.

Some end up in the garden,
Decorating old flower pots.
You find them stored in jars,
A collection of precious gems.
But the more patient and artistic,
Glue them to pots in different ways,
Then finish by painting with a glaze.

As I sit on the rocks by the sea,
Watching  people as they pass by me.
I see many different ages bending up and down,
Picking glass pebbles like jewels from a crown.
Old or young there is a look in their eyes,
If they pick a perfect pebble it's excitement and surprise.
Every day they come like an invasion on the shore,
But it's nothing quite so cynical,
They have just come to pick some more.