Driftwood

It was just a piece of old driftwood,
Bent in the middle,
An odd mark either side,
A hole in the front.
It was just a blob of seaweed,
Dried, yellow-green and wispy.
It was just a shell,
A twisted, pointy cone
Washed up on the beach.
But with the eye of imagination
And a few spots of glue
The driftwood became a horse,
The seaweed its mane,
The shell its horn,
And the little girl deserted the plastic toys
Squealing in delight with her unicorn.

Ten years later,
The little girl is not so little anymore.
The mane is yellow and wispy,
The horse is cracked and dusty,
The tip of the horn has broken off.
But still the unicorn sits on the top of the bookshelf,
A reminder to look for the extraordinary.