On the coast
of some different shore
ages and ages ago
we shoved our feet in the hot sand,
and drowned ourselves in the cool waves,
and let the seaweed tangle us up,
like a mother’s blankets.
We’d watch the boats go in and out
and wade and waste away afternoons, child-like.
The blackberry trees were always ripe and full,
sweet and tart,
staining our hands, faces and feet.
And sun would set,
tired and hungry,
with our pores full of that fishy smell,
we two together, with him in tow,
would climb the hill for our cake.
Days have gotten shorter and cooler.
Nights have gotten longer and darker.
There has been warm wind and stiff breeze
and sun
and sand
and seaweed
and blackberries.
The boats have come and gone,
and their passengers have long departed
and returned,
standing on that bow,
watching the sun go down,
thinking, “my, what a lovely beach”.
Until one day when way made way
amidst the whistle and hum
of a crowded city street.
And eye met eye, and gaze met gaze,
but nothing was spoken between.
You just sat suspended there,
shining orb-like,
red and gold and bright,
like tiny beads of fat in the cans of clams.
You’ve found your way to this day,
and on the journey, other shores,
as delightful, as carefree.
But ne’er to that different shore,
of years of yore,
that belonged to you and me.
