Melancholy...

All Those Grandmothers

I can see my grandmother's face,
her wrinkles in the logs we walk by
on Island View beach.
If I kissed one,
the salt would sting my chapped lips,
remind me of grandma's favourite candies,
the black salted licorice babies
I hate the taste of,
and I'd rather kiss you.

The driftwood is bleached, the lines
darkened and deepened as it rolls
over and over. You say
we'll grow old together as we walk,
my hand inside yours.
The tide slowly covers the sandbars,
washing over my feet.
All those grandmothers
roll back into the ocean, aging,
break apart silently in the waves,
as you put your arms around me.

©Shannon Horlor