Blown like spindrift to exotic land-
falls, we pieced together fragments
from the tideline of our ways:
flotsam from lost buccaneers,
sandpapered by rough-tongued waves
to faded blues and greens of halcyon
days: jetsam of spar and stave,
baulks of salt-logged timber beams,
the ancient freight of older tides -
worn shards of marble, pottery.
Smooth pebbles, cold as sea-laid
eggs, suggested possibilities; we'd
scavenge from the mad March gales
what trove they'd yield. Grudgingly
the waves relinquished treasures
like small change. Rings of foam
cast spells about our feet,
so that we stayed.
When days warp to the eye of storm,
when moonlight calibrates each stone,
along that shore, the spirits of a woman
and her son still roam...
for Romany
At Aghios Fokas
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103030200958
Свидетельство о публикации №103030200958
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