By Tillie-Rose Wallis
The orange of my nails meets the tan sand, grains falling, attaching to the damp
I pick the small shell in my fingers then place it in the palm of my hand The sound of it clicking against the others obtained from the same sands I straighten up, the wind brings smells of salt and perfume, its motion pushing
Later, I sit in front of the campfire
The laughter of my friends, the plucking of strings and the soothe tone it
emits
I think of the day, of the sea and its loot
I transport back, to a decade ago To different waves, to same action
I pick the small shell in my fingers then place it in the palm of my hand
The sound of it clicking against the others obtained from the same sands l open my grasp; they cascade into a plastic bed
Here, 1,369 miles from there, I am the same.
Featured Image- Saoirse Pira
