The Writers' Circle

Driftwood
on the shingle beach
no definition, no home
reliant upon external forces.

the drag of the tide
clawing back its escaped flotsam
hugging it tightly
drowning again,

Or the foundations
of a steaming fire,
warm amongst the camp songs
burnt and blackened,

Or reclaimed, 
taken to a new house
polished and shaped
stroked and slapped
Exhibited.

Without choice
there is no pleasure,
I need to regain control,
And stop being
Driftwood.