On a sunny sea shore
on the threshold of a sea wave
they run like a rain
and drop in the sea game.
Having worked the sense
into streams, spouts and surf
they comb white curls
of the depth going to all lengths.
Parents — seagulls are wheeling about,
off broken water delivering them
into air and sand
and their crump walk-around.
So squelt adulthood is mere a song
of the world left to a child,
mere the mellowly rolling fond
around an unlearnt rite.
What are grown-ups! They are only the marks
to be shot by full handfulls of sand,
and you and I — only a shadow,
and a waiving hand.
On the beach
© Copyright: Нэтти Бампо, 2002
Свидетельство о публикации №102031300783
Свидетельство о публикации №102031300783
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