Supposing

Supposing there was nothing left on your island
Just the sea curling around the edges
And making footprints that waves make
Upon wet sand.
Supposing you went home and found no one there
Except the wet July sky
Holding out a bouquet of stars
And the air touched your face with rain.
Supposing there was no one home no where
No familiar tracks to greet you
With the memory of a footprint in the sand
Washed up by the sea, still wet
With the track of stars on a fine rain night.
Supposing you sat and became a poem by the sea
A garland of weeds growing
From a mythical tail
Counting the ripples and coins
From forgotten wrecks
And tugging at the ebb of the stars?
All alone, older than July and its rain,
Supposing there was no one there to read?

Anjana Basu



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