Fiona Turnbull: Shifting Sands
Photo by Syd Oztr on Pexels
You put your hand in mine,
Or maybe I put my hand in yours, I’m not sure.
Your hand is old, the dark blue veins prominent, cased in wrinkles
Your nails are thick, neatly cut and pristine
In spite of how hard your hands have worked.
I feel safe and serious,
With my plump child’s hand enveloped in yours.
You lean on me, just a little, for support.
Our bodies ebb and flow as we walk the shoreline.
“Before you were born”, I hear you say in your West Coast lilt
“The sea was here, all along,
“It doesn’t need anyone at all.
“These waves would be lapping on a deserted shore
Even without us here to see them.
Isn’t that magical?”
I look up at you and smile,
Captivated by the wonder in your voice.
I know it too, now I am as old as you,
Walking the same shoreline,
In the north-eastern summer evenings,
Dusk suspended, just a gentle shrouding of the sun.
Our absence is as real as our presence.
You are alongside me still.
Only now, it’s my hand that’s weathered and worn.
And you are the little girl with the twinkling eyes.
(Yes, she was there all along.)
And still, you are grandmother too.
Sitting on the checked picnic rug,
Delighting in my childish delight,
As I splash in and out of ice-cold waves,
Laughing with shock and exhilaration.
Ages, memories, time intermingling
Like sands shifting shape
As the sea slides across the shore.
High up on the dunes
A walker rests for a moment
And gazes at the expanse of pristine sand.
The beach is empty,
Only two sets of footprints,
And waves lapping on the shore.
Fiona Turnbull
Fiona Turnbull is a gestalt psychotherapist based in London and a member of the UKAGP editorial team. www.fionaturnbull.co.uk and fiona@fionaturnbull.co.uk
