Shifting Seashorses
I
run my finger along the ribbed edges
of
the creamy orange clam shell,
the
Scottish seaside lapping, tickling my legs
as
I tread through its chilly water, my feet
displacing
the sand underneath me,never going back
to where it started.
Gaze into the knee-high liquid,
see another shell,
purple specks on a blue background,
curves of flawless porcelain
in the shape of an ocean’s wave frozen in place.
It’s smaller, so I place it in my pocket
to keep with the others. More water seeps
through my jean’s thick fabric,
still infusing my upper thigh with its cold touch.
And my lips curve into a smile.
Soon, The Jacobite’s horn behind me moans
the impending departure to Loch Linnhe.
I tiptoe to my shoes placed above
the water’s reach on a jagged
boulder, leave the graying laces
untied before transferring the multicolored,
fragile shells to my backpack, careful
to avoid cracking them.
I want them unbroken,
constant, fully formed forever.
Shivers
scatter through my limbs
as
jacket goes on and pant legs roll down.Walk back to the red and black
painted train, and I try to avoid looking
at what is now behind me,
the shifting seashore
of revolving waves and travelling sands,
of frail clouds and easily-swayed
shells, all things that will never
remain the same.
The
shore all but gone, I climb the steps
of
the train, gasp when my foot trips over my ragged shoelace,
and the contents of my unzipped backpack,
my constant seashells,
scatter across the solid flooring,
each shell unfixable
and shattered into pieces.
