Mirage
In the season of striped deckchairsI remove the shoes and socks of civilisation
And walk barefoot on the rippled sand-skin.
I leave the beach banter behind
And squelch my way to the water's edge.
The sea is giving up her dead -
Cracked crabs,
Languid lugworms,
Bleached bones.
I hear fluttering,
Not of gull wings
But of a kite's ponytail.
They say kites connect
The living with the dead.
In the teenage-blue sky,
Clear as a new tear,
I see my dead mother's name:
Charlotte
Charlott
Charlot
Charlo
Charl
Char
Cha
Ch
C
They say kites connect
The living with the dead.
Poetry by Christopher Fernie
Read 732 times
Written on 2016-09-17 at 10:42
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Kathy Lockhart |
|
josephus |
|
Rob Graber |
