As I walk along the seashore,
The water lapping at my bare feet,
Memories from distant places wash ashore…
Mysterious, unknown, discreet…
I drown into my own thoughts
& stumble upon a bottle which,
Though old, is bereft of any notes,
That keep its history out of reach…
But maybe it came from somewhere
Far-far away & undiscovered,
& maybe the wine's good there,
Used for feasts or to seduce a lover.
I will probably never find out
Nor even bother trying,
‘Coz my attention drifts to a dead trout
That the waves abandoned and left for dying…
I see a wet unfinished cigarette,
That was perhaps thrown by accident or carelessly
While being shared or put off by a thoughtful mate,
Who might’ve snatched it from the smoker, albeit tactfully.
Right alongside, lies a tiny chappal,
That could’ve belonged to a midget or child,
About which were strewn many a shells, that bore not even a pearl,
But covered with designs intricate and wild,
For Nature was probably artistically charged,
As it was when It thought of the algae covered stones,
That into the scenery so beautifully merged,
Feeding the sheltered shrimps & buzzing drones.
Stories may weave around these varieties of things
But stories, which will never be told,
For one can just imagine each tale, that brings
each object, which in its own way, is as precious & unique as gold.
