Forty-four pale blue sails tip the horizon,point up towards lengths of marbled cloud
as the voices of children, muffled by the sand
are held in stillness over small waves,
the same if I close my eyes
as forty years ago, or thirty or ten,
the same salt smell, the same scratchy tap
of a spade on the bottom of a bucket.
2 comments:
Lovely, satisfying poem and photo. I'm very much liking your photos on this grey background.
Beautiful poem and picture. The tipping horizon works just right, and how you've trapped that soaring gull. The 'scratchy tap of a spade' is so evocative and for some reason makes me wince a bit in my toes, I think I must have once hurt them with a sandy spade...
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