Grey stormy waves, decayed tides.
Wind through my hair, my fingers; brushing
past my cheeks.
Shells that echo in the year
Of past-time storms and past-time winds.
The smell of seaweed floating in the air,
Unpleasant yet nostalgic.
My palms are rough and dry
From picking up treasures spat out
By the water.
Childhood memories flood in.
Of agates I had found and stores
In boxes all over my house.
Flashbacks of red jaspers I had
Lifted off the shore.
Amongst winds that whistled in my ears.
Moody skies; grey clouds shielding the
Sand from the sun, the mist suspended in the air.
The taste of salt on my tongue,
My fingers. The taste of salt
On my soul.
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About the Creator
Vicky Babczyk
18 year old with a passion for writing in all categories :)
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