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
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