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Personal Note:

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Poem

He is lying along the empty road
like a bored crow, gazing at the bank.

I am standing above him
with hands behind my back.
Leaning gently, just to have
a better look at the beach.

-See? He says calmly,
picking something from sand.
- That's a seashell.

- It’s pretty.

I am looking at the little, pearly thing
slowly rotating in his fingers.
- What an unusual shape.

- It belongs to my wife, he continues.

- Oh yeah, right.
I say, somehow already knowing that.
-But that beach, you know?
It's exactly like the one I used to spent time at.

His sight is following my finger
as I am pointing at the single-standing willow,
old boat and a small bridge.

Everything looks the same, I say.
Just cleaner and calmer.

He is nodding his head, like if he understood.

-Even the dark, old house
with broken windows resembles something.
I continue and he takes out 
a bunch pictures from 
inner pocket of his jacket.

I can't remember what he was saying,
while comparing those two old Victorian buildings
and pointing at something in the photographs.

Perhaps, it was because our conversation 
had been disrupted from time to time
by a screaming woman in a white dress.
Standing right next to us on the road.

None of this feels weird as I dream it.

We slowly turn our heads away from her.
I stand still and observe him patiently
through the strands dancing with the wind.

It seems he knows
how to put all the pieces together.

Like if he had a beach similar to mine once...
Caught and lost in the past.

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