She smelt like the old stories
The Ones my mother sang,
her huge house was a shell
a garden,
lacking only a spring.
She told us tales
of people who left her behind,
I was in awe of all that she had
And what she didn’t.
Her daughter was of my age
A pretty face and fragile hands,
A girl, surrounded by people
A girl, no one could understand.
I fell in love with her boy
The walking beauty
of our gloomy beach,
His heart was a sacred place
a glittering thing, I couldn’t reach.
He’d walk on words
and swim in love
But we failed to keep in touch.
My memory seems forgotten
like the book you don’t miss much.
Categories
Colour of beach bark
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