I am building a prison of sticks on the sand, seven staves of reed and wood-drift sunk at intervals wide as a child's hand reaching to span the circumference of a fist, seeking the closed solace of its confines. All it holds is the broken homes of shells, the elaborate guise and defense of bodies too soft, or with claws too ragged, who crawl ashore in pieces with the winter tide which gently rocks and grinds us back to sand. Love is a snug trap which the heart seals and the mind keeps without words for keys. Still, I pluck up the snarled quill to scribe words onto the shore's bleak tablet that I should not forget or be forgotten- yet, while the empty rigging chimes the masts, the cold tide rises to undo even these and a new page rolls up waiting for the entries of bird tracks and the scribbling of children, the secret messages of life, the encrypted codes which the sea sends.
Kevin Cornwall © All rights reserved.