Felt FlowersHe always said he loved his mother,
cut out felt flowers and stuck them on a stick
to mark each year since she went away
In summer he would rise at dawn,
pack his lunch and place a hat upon his head
and wander down across the pier
to set up easel and painting palate -
It always helped to pull the 'birds'
as seaguls circled hungrily.
He painted boats with fine grooved skippers,
weather beaten, puffing chimneys.
Those pretty girls in summer frocks
where wind blows revealing
high bikini lines and sprays of
salt in long hanging hair.
Couples walking arm in arm would
stop and look and pass the time
seeing far away eyes of hungry loneliness
like the hunks of bread he made,
a doorstep leading to some other place.
In winter the screech of gulls reminds him
of the summer girls he crudely painted
as in oil he exhibits fishing boats
once deployed to fetch a maiden home,
her beauty carved upon the prow -
too proud, she never would return.
Poetry by Elle
Read 495 times
Written on 2014-01-23 at 17:07
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