The Ageing Story

Little crabs their toes scrawled upon the sand Meaningless patterns pinched on my eyes Yet browsing, the water like a fairy's wand Leave nothing but the blankness of surprise. Some purpose in the little crustaceans random patterns Did they chase an illusion too, seeking destinations While the fated footsteps without glowing lanterns Callously direct a spurious crowd's unintentions? Was it shells alone marked for this tidal destiny Now stalking an old man, frightening his memory? And I had always exalted above history My ability to tell like Aeneas my story. If the crab comes back nothing will be here To say it was here before. It's neither tides nor waves that wipe things bare It is the wind smoothing out the wrinkles from the shore. My mind too like crab's feet Stares wondrously at the blank sheet