Holidays on a beach: a poem

The softest tissue is the only armour
you brought here. Nothing
held your eyes beyond the lullaby
of tides, encroaching on the wave
shaped skin of bleached beach songs.
You used to sit under the palm
trees, gathering drifts
of pale sand through fingers,
drawing constellations of colour
through the air. In that forest
of bodies, it was only you,
who stood static, entranced
in the beauty of your shadow
slowly but surely gathering momentum
to pierce the gloom that was coming
for all of us. Remember
how the pebbles plunged the neckline
of the sea? Remember
how the heat beaded the edge
of our longing? It was all so young
then, now febrile, now a
detailed sketch of some other type of life.
Who lives like that everyday—
sunny side up, naked teeth, hot
skin, white sand, books &
sunshades, gossip & ice?
Who?
We blew bubbles all the way
to the Himalayas. We airlifted
every music to the Artic.
In the attic, if I have one, I
sometimes sit in front of boxes
of you & me, sorting through emotions
that feel stunted & stubbed.
I'm still trying to understand how
your body became so loud inside water.

Pixabay

It's been a while since I have written here. So much has been going on. Mostly I have been reading lots of poetry. A whole lot. How have you been?