Seashells

The bell tolls for the Angelus,

as I lie rocking in a hammock,

thinking of a foetus in a womb.

My eyes trace the hovering eagles

and the grey- white clouds

in a hurry.

The rhythmic chant

of the fishermen echo,

while they pull the nets

laden with gasping fish;

gripping hands,

feet treading seashells

into wet sand,

moving to the tune of the waves,

a tight-rope dance of survival.

My feet now touches

the moist lush ground,

sprinkled

with a fresh breath of flowers.

Next to me, 

my daughter counts,

the pieces of sea shells

she picked on the beach

in the morning.

I asked her “How many?”

to which she replied “Twenty two.”

“I meant the whole ones...” I remarked,

discarding the chips

she had with her more.

“I like the broken ones too…” she said,

in a tone of utter seriousness

and asked me,

“Don’t you?”

My eyes met hers,

and the rhythmic chant

echoed again…