An evocative poem by Monika, exclusively for Different Truths. 

My fingers, as I sat on the bench
about the crimp of the withering wood.
It was likely just as ingrained with salt,
by onshore breezes and those crispy gales
that even changed the air to taste like brine,
resting so close to the widest tides.

The old bench rested, revealed to
the things for many seasons as chattels;
seemed older than it was, perhaps.
Now it bolstered the earmarks of a driftwood,
those limpid hues of its once juvenile state
had become livid, dusky yet beautiful.

I shifted, feeling the slight give in the wood.
But the creaks and scrape strayed
beneath the sound of the crashing waves.
Hesitantly, I made my mind to sit,
with patience entwined in a dilemma;
Yet with an essence, partaking the moment.

I let my sight face the horizon meeting the blue.
I mused how many had taken seat at this spot,
and did their emotions echo those tides?!
Perchance some were twain in love,
few baffled teens searching for allusion,
some old ones, reliving that gone moment.

I stood there thinking I was none of those,
neither at the dawn of my life or the end.
but old and versed enough to revere moments
instead of wishing them away.

©Monika Ajay Kaul

Photo from the Internet