From Torquay Beach -- Its coarse pink sands Swept almost clean by breakers Foaming white under black skies -- Comes one irregular stone -- Smooth, hard, and fit to serve As birdbath perch For a small singing bird In sunlit garden Far away. . . . When days have swept The shores of word-tossed debris Almost clean There may remain Some single thought -- Smooth, solid as crystal -- And comforting to the hand When clasped and held.