They cannot be sold, made into a tasty dish or set to work. So what qualifies as a marvel? And why do we respond to them with such deep pleasure?
Last Sunday, while I was walking along a coastal path in Sydney, I was stopped in my tracks by a marvel. It was first noticed, as these things often are, by a small boy who was walking with me. Look at that! We both stopped and gazed at the marvel.
It sat on a low sandstone rock near the edge of the sea. We squatted down to examine it more closely. It was only a walking boot, but it was laced delicately all over the back and sides and tongue, and even the rim of the sole, with small white conical seashells, as if someone had stitched the shells into the fabric. The shells’ bright whiteness was tinged with a faint pink and there was a dark narrow opening where, with careful observation, we could see in each shell a soft living creature.
Full fathom five thy father lies/ Of his bones are coral made/ Those are pearls that were his eyes/ Nothing of him that doth fade/ But doth suffer a sea change/ Into something rich and strange.
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