View from the coast

So many snail shells in the sand
suggest a desert, the graveyard it hides.
Rocks grow into trees, the light echoes;
a valency, whatever it might be, happens.
At the pass, painted graffiti, expected to be
primal and in another language.

Then, a painted stairway, first step
to the last, always going up. Resulting
in footprints or best seats at a cloudshow.
Rains comes leaving calling cards
of fallen leaves. Snails try to enter –
for the fun of it– an empty fishbowl.

Seagulls, really mutes, try to talk
while what we hear, we interpret as
begging. The park is cluttered with people
and the flags of plastic bags they leave.
If the word for sin in French is close to
peach tree, there is redemption.