We return each year in spring,
too transient to leave a trace,
but having so few rituals
to call our own we cherish this:
you with the small red shrimp-net,
a hopeful boy hop-scotching rock-
pools, me with the notebook idle
in my hand, pen fallen slack,
watching a wary octopus
sidle through shallows out of reach,
an x-ray pale sea-spider weaving
water-nets; hearing the hidden night-
bird's cuckoo-cry, monotonous in dusk,
inhaling musk from blossoming
acacia-trees that screen the beach;
drawn into the island's gentle alchemies
that take us back, stripping away
layers of dead memory like husks
from wheat, till we remember
how to breathe, we rediscover peace.
Shrimp-catchers, Syros
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103030400559
Свидетельство о публикации №103030400559
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