Wrinkles

Hanging in the living room corner, 
just beside the purple vase, 
right behind the heater – the one, mom bought in the coldest winter, 
Is a charcoal frame of yesteryears, freezing a scene at least two decades old – no,a couple more. 
Two sets of wrinkled feet -one brown and one pink.

I guess it was a Friday, 
there were ferries all along the coast. Awaiting the tired souls after a five day haul. 
Do you remember Miss P, we visited each summer, 
one with the yellow hair; 
yes, behind that very household. 
May be, may be not, 
can’t trust the tales of, a then nine and another four year old.

Dusk was set, tide all time high. 
Black water gushed and washed ashore; clinging on to the innocent ankles, they tried to stay firm on their hold. Desperate. 

Until reminded, seas can’t be partial, waves are detached and impersonal. Reluctantly slipping through, with a promise to visit again sometime on the morrow.

Giggling sea – tanned  faces, 
wriggling their brown and pink toes in the still receding surf. 
Leaving their tiny feet wrinkled and cold.