Pink wild roses
grey-shingled hut sitting on stilts
fiddler crabs scurry about
salvage and driftwood
pungent smell of seaweed algae
the Cape we always went to
buried under the dunes
Oh, my children
each time the tide crashes
used to collect stones, shells
re-using planks and railings
old cedar deck, rebuilt
cranberry bog,
village cemetery
falling into the sea
spadefoot toad foraging
perched on marram grass
pale-yellow sun this morning:
Oh, my children
each time the tide crashes
wood-and-sand fence
falling into the sea.
Photo Credit
Photographs by Kim Knox, (c) 2001, licensed to About.com, Inc.
First Posted At sunday @ 6 mag
Guest Author Bio
Ilona Martonfi
Ilona Martonfi Author of two poetry books, Blue Poppy, (Coracle Press, 2009.) Black Grass, (Broken Rules Press 2012). Published in Vallum, Accenti, The Fiddlehead, Serai. Founder/producer of The Yellow Door and Visual Arts Centre Readings, co-founder of Lovers and Others. QWF 2010 Community Award.
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Nature and memories, old shingled shack and weathered memories , feelings rising with the tides;time never abides .
Hi Serge, Thank you for your comment, Cheers, Ilona