Balanced like a coin
on the tip of my finger,
exquisite as
anything by Fabergé,
this snail-swirl
of Fool’s Gold, cast
in seabed silt
and filled with quartz
200 million years before
we became
***
tilt it forwards/
backwards/
forwards/
to the shimmering flames
of the hearth
and each ridged cell
loses/
catches/
loses/
the chancy firelight
shrinks/
swells/
shrinks/
breathing
_____________
Helen Evans’s pamphlet is Only by Flying (HappenStance Press). Poems have appeared in The Rialto, The North, and Magma; another was a joint winner of the Manchester Cathedral 600 competition. She has an MLitt in Creative Writing (University of St Andrews).www.helenevans.co.uk