Monday, January 4, 2010

Eastern Shore

Hands slipping from cotton and leather
sliding along old knotted wood
creaking in the breeze.

The ocean stands in the distance
grey, impending, but oddly silent;
its violent waves falling on deaf shores.

The seabirds are little more than kites, hanging there above;
even their fluttering feathers and open beaks
lack their usual light hearted revelry.

This happy place is now more like a fortress, perched on the edge of the world
and I am small, standing at its gates
the cold air stinging my narrowed eyes,
and the water beginning to lap at my feet.

1 comment:

Lovely Little Lovelies said...
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