Tumbling Shells

Walking through the woods,

leaves cling to my shoes

squelching under foot.

branches cross my path,

dangling angular mirrors

reflecting youthful faces

of family, long since dead.

They smile, happy to see me.

I try to speak

but my voice has no sound.

When I look closer,

faces bloom into lilies

and there is a strong scent

of mint tea.


Ahead, a Labrador barks at me,

a silver key swishes from his tail.

My name and a house number

are engraved in blood red ink.

Overhead, I hear bells chiming.

Looking up, shells tumble

like snow from a flame sky.

They land in front of me,

melt into tiny yellow crabs.

I turn, facing an archway,

leading into an dark ivy lane.

In front of me is a tiny cottage

with a red door and brass handle.

My name and number is on the door.

I stand outside, key in hand,

unsure about entering.



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