The Bench

The bench is rotting underneath my naked skin.
The talking logs.
They tell stories from before and which, out of nostalgia can not be changed.
Placed on the sheen sand, a crescendo that meets Poseidon’s paradise.
The brackish water catching its breath like a whale.
Up and down it travels.
Seagulls singing for their prey, enchanting the ears that will listen.
My body unmoving but around me the living is turning.

Behind this place far away from sorrow technology is paused.
No one can reach me if they do not raise their voice.
I know I am not alone.

Here I am never alone.
With me travels the memories that I hold dearest of simple days.
Red lights and queues are long forgotten,
the speakers are silenced.
When dusk with dark fingers embraces her lover
we sit down here.
Collecting fossils caught in stone, talking about times long gone.

Three golden heads testing their courage by following dad out on the square shaped rocks.
Only the barefooted can make it there. Because this is the simpler time
where only the imagination can stop us.
White dresses turning black with every slip. Washing them we do outside.
When the sisters finally stand there, on the last landing
nothing is further.
The decreasing light of day is being swallowed by the waves.
We stand there watching the simple beauty.

No where on earth is more home that where this memories lie where the bench is rotting with our years.