Just once upon a timeI walk along the shore a lonely, solitary stretch
of sand the horizon yawning as it dips beyond the
here and now and everywhere, my ships sailing,
tilting as they fall beyond my grasp and understanding.
I press my hands deeper into pockets and wish
that the last leaves were not so robust
stop their clinging to the trees and be free
like waves that play a game of peek-a-boo
circling around my shoes leaving foam like
a stream of landlords in a bar pulling pints
using teaspoons to paint patterns on the froth.
I could walk and walk, across the beach, up that path
the one that leads to the highest dune and pretend
I am at the top of the world watching it all drift
like hourglass sand, gently slipping and sliding away.
Perhaps I will wipe away a salty tear, leaving marks
trails of sadness on my cheeks and chin.
or tremulously smile and glide, digging my heels into
the sand as I sink into a downward spiral.
All I know for now, is that I am here and you are there
and everywhere is nowhere on a beach walk
in the late autumn air, while seagulls gather
watching as fishermen moor boats against the
harbour walls and the women of my childhood
wear patterned scarves securely tied
while the men wore waders that always had an oily smell.
The tang of beaches past and now, lend a taste
into the colours of me, the ones like a child’s
finger swirling into the paints of memories pictures
that hung on old fashioned refrigerator doors
yellowing and curling like last summer roses.
The feel of a small and pudgy hand holding mine,
the firm grasp that covered and bled warmth
to the brittleness of old bones, gently dissolving
into the passions of who and what we were.
This stretch, this crooked mile where stones
Could be ancient sixpences leading us to
cobbled streets and bright lights that echo
in smoggy air, our breaths contaminated
as our once silken kisses blink from pages
that were never writ upon just only faint effigies of us
revealing snapshots of mood rubbed by a thousand tides
only partial secrets, of you and me and all
what was and could have been
before the ebb and flow stole away the sketch
roughly drawn with sticks on lonely walk once
just once upon a time
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2016-11-13 at 14:52
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