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Pilings covered
with seaweed and mussels,
exposed then swallowed
by the relentless tide,
look like spindly legs.

My grandmother
is  standing
shin deep
in the sway
of some forgotten
shallow cove
where she bends
to the water
one hand holding
her straw hat
tightly to her head,
the other
turning over stones
that seem to waver
in their bed of sand
under the gliding water.

My mother
sits on the beach
crying. Her mouth
full of sand.

Waves lap
at the pilings,
little tongues
full of salt.

I stand on the pier
tossing stones
into the water
one by one,
my hair whipped
by the wind
into tangled serpents.