On the hem of sand, rich, heavy and slowed
by the rush of water’s time, lies a
a palm, embedded. Lifelines try to recapture
lost moments and moisture – its very lifeblood.
No longer parched and yesterday’s season,
The leaf is host to sunlight glinting on the droplets
that covers its span. Through them it becomes alive.
Foam titillates, revitalising every tired line and crease
and colour is held captive, or at least, till it is no more.
Pressed into warm sand, it basks for a time,
letting the ebb and flow wash over and smooth
the turned up corners, that still reach for something,
while it can.
Either side, footprints placed carefully, ebb and flow
and filled is the space once occupied. A memory
is imprinted for seconds, but is soon erased,
carried away as he has been, as he travels further on
up the shore. More footprints leave behind the present
and makes the past hold water, hitherto beyond our ability.
The maker is now the ghost as he walks on,
leaving behind the marks of time and his day –
laid bare for the sun to pour into and the tide
to ease away, clearing the way for more steps, steps
that fill and sink us on life’s sand when it becomes
too wearisome and heavy.
Footprints in the sand are everywhere as we
kick off our shoes, barefoot we offload,
leaving our mark and become the ghosts of our time,
but those that still live by moving on.
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