remembering when (troibun)

 

When she thinks of beach, today, memories of long ago walking along a sandy beach in Maine resurfaces. It was dusk…the tide was up, so she, her family and friends could not walk on the wet sand like they did in the afternoon. She was only eleven; he was fifteen. But they were almost the same height. He may have thought she was more mature in “that sense”.
The wind picked up as they stared out onto the ocean; they walked slightly away from the family both quiet in thought, as if they were in different worlds. She was so young and naïve, he was a romantic and a vibrant adolescent. He was so handsome, she remembers, and spoke little English. For some reason, his words in French were so poetic.

(troiku)

high tide waves
impressive yet cold
bare foot in the sand

high tide waves
bold and calculating
startling splash rouses

impressive yet cold
warmth of his hand rubs gently
on innocent hand

bare foot in the sand
watching life go by in the sea
dreaming different tales

She remembers the softness of his the back of hand gently stoking her hand. It felt so natural like holding hands with her sister or her best friend…comforting, endearing. Thinking about this in her tent that night, she wondered if he felt something different than she…after all he was so much older than she. That summer of 1963 where innocence is still a nice safe place to be.

©Tournesol’17/07/19

Written for Carpe Diem Haiku Kai : Beach

 

 

bedtime stories (troiku)

©Clr’16

giggles from the sand
afterglow of impish smiles
timeless memories

giggles from the sand
naivety breeds total trust
signs of timeless youth

afterglow of impish smiles
pure and innocent
after their first time

timeless memories
adults’ bedtime stories
on lonely nights

© Tournesol’16/08/16

Haiku Horizons “sign”

a place among pine trees (haibun)

The family would pile in the Chevrolet Impala and drive up the windy roads to Old Orchard, Maine. She loved camping in that pine forest despite sweeping the tent twice a day (or more!) of those dried up pine needles.

The only thing she could not do which was such a natural part of her being, was walking barefoot on that bed of pine needles.  She could walk on gravel and dirt roads but never on that blanket of prickly pine needles.

Their father would leave the girls and their mother for a week while he drove up further to PA on a business trip. Those were the best of times…just the girls, relaxing. Rising only when the sun warmed the tent; toasting bread on the fire and then walking a mile down that shady road surrounded by old wooden cottages and pine trees…so many gigantic pine trees leading up to the beach where they listened to the sounds of rolling waves, seagulls and youngsters giggling…except of course for the odd melodies on their transistor radio…

Salt water beckons
scent of pine interrupted
seagulls greet

© Tournesol ’15