Seashell in a box (Moments 6)
Number 6 in a series of poems I’ve been writing for 30 years. Amsterdam, October 2015.
Locked in this box
I have a seashell
that whispers to me
of white foaming surf and starfish,
of sirens and islands,
of sails and whales
and a voyage to see
a ballet of almond trees.
When there is no melody to be heard,
when this silence crushes,
I listen to my seashell —
it reminds me how to sing.
And I can smell oysters and dead fish;
And I can hear the wind groaning in the rigging;
And I can touch seaweed slime and driftwood;
And I can taste salt spray on my lips.
Then I hide it in this box, away, again.
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