From within the Great Whelk's clear mind
at play in the fields of the mollusc
there forms a vision of
the mighty floating crust
that is the plaything of the
tectonic Whelk lord of the earth.

The orographic process is conjured
at times of idle thought
and the eons pass
in the light of the Whelkish mind;
deep blue pools
in the rocks of feldspar
and quartz,
coughed in age-long convulsions
from the depth of the gastropod
subconscious where life is tasted
by the radulla of the soul.

For here the whelk is in repose,
and vinegar, yes.