driftwood

"Sometimes I try to imagine a driftwood branch, torn from its tree, its roots, in a storm. I imagine it drifting out on the tide, where the wind and the rain and the salt and the water bleach away the colour, smooth away the roughness. The driftwood branch washes up on a beach, with seaweed, tangled string, plastic cartons, old shoes and dead jellyfish. Will somebody pick it up, see its beauty, turn it into something new? Or will they just walk on by, leaving the branch for the tide to take again?"