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The seashell
I found a seashell in the car today;
it rolled into her deserted footwell
as I turned into our old parking bay;
it lay, with all the stories it could tell.
We gathered it, together, on some beach
the girl and I, amidst the water, wine,
hypothesis of things beyond our reach;
when was that? Oh, the summer 69,
I think, it’s hard to tell, these autumn days.
Would it still proclaim her lost siren’s call
if held to ear? Or, echo sea’s malaise,
lashing waves, the inevitable squall?
The shell, it sits, its inner pinkness lures
me still; though it is long devoid of soul,
it brings a recollection that endures;
A summer beach, her face, a happy stroll.
Copyright ©
Terry Miller
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