Ayya

Pure poetry, she
My grandmother in her sleep
Nodding,
Yes and no and yes.
War and truce.

Her belly,
The tides with,
A whirlpool in centre
Skin is pale and has lines that stretch
Like a newly washed shore
The waves gone.

And like the water
She is not of the same shade
From afar.

Her eyebrows,
Scattered sea shells today
That glisten like pearls they hide
From the sun.

The stories that rage
When it rains
Come alive
Inside
Where she takes nothing in
And gives back sunken treasures
From her heart that grows weary
But beats, still.