Sat on a wall, I watched the turnstones, turn stones
on Turnstone Beach. Working their patch,
from rocky groyne, to crow border.
Strung out in several lines - unified pattern,
moving slowly left to right,
digging up their own slimy brown gold
Each ebb tide marks a new gold-rush -
hidden secrets washed up.
White pebbles for Black Hills
Turnstone is like their Native American name
or Lalawethika, meaning ‘man who makes noise'
Which I don't.
I'm One who sits on wall - quietly,
We are disturbed by a man in brown jacket
walks, crunching feet in the pebbles,
running a black dog.
The turnstones fly up
showing the whites of their wings
I move more slowly,
get to my feet,
There are many stones left unturned,
but then there are many ebb tides,
and many turnstones - on Turnstone Beach
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.