The curve of the shell, the swirl, the twirl
Spinning and spinning, upwards it curls
Emitting faint rays of black, pink and brown
Swirling upwards, swirling down.
The groove of the shell, the spiraling dents
Careless marks left with no intents
Smooth ridges, rough ridges, left by the tide
On every corner, on every side.
The scent of the shell, its great history
The sound and the feel from its home in the sea.
Daughter of motion, every thought, every notion
It comes from the rivers; it comes from the ocean.

(Haven't revisited this one for a while now... how young I was back then!)