What you were, the locals cannot tell,
Which leads me to believe
Either this was not your true place,
Or this was not your true form.
So I ask, who owned your egg-white shell?
Did you live here or leave,
Rock and stone scouring your case,
On wave crests which held you borne?

Fin sand encrusted between each bone
In time has worn you white,
Washed together with salt and sun.
To reshape and recolour.
What remains is a skeletal clone
Of your previous sight;
Those years you grew have come undone,
But does this make you duller?

There’s intrigue in your fossilised figure,
Which left to its own devices becomes less and less familiar.