There are different kinds – the car scratched on sand
with a twig, an arrangement of seashells,
driftwood draped across the earth like clock hands
a pair of mugs, a wallpaper on a cell -
these too were promises, and they travel
with me now, their tyre marks wherever I land,
their shapes circling the baggage carousel.
They tug forward, nonstop, breathless, the rims
of golden clouds, the brimming azure sea,
the curved solar lampposts. The sun must dim
its light so that their stores can come to be
a lit path back home. They travel close with me -
the long lost shells, driftwood, pebbles, the whims
of tides and winds; promises made too freely.