The Shell

The hardest thing
is letting go of the sound.

This tiny box I hold

is like the shell is to the sea:

within it is rests a distant wave
which smells of salt
and feels like mist.

I love you,
are the words through the squall
spoken at a moment
before the next wind buffets,
a shout against the storm
spoken like a whisper.

A growl at the world
on a grey day,
a snatch of string in the background,
the sound of long roads rumbling
beneath you.

Your laughter,
rings out like gulls
on a clear morning
swooping and hovering,
its sound like feathers on my cheek.

That small black shell
has taken the ocean of you

and when I hold it to my ear

I hear wave after wave.

The shell can hold the sea,

a thousand seas –

and it is without time.

The sounds of this shell

I have listened to in the quiet night

that I may remember the sea
and the sound of your voice

when there are no shells

save my own cupped hands,
straining to hear a memory.