Exactly between the eastward-rising moon
And the sorrowful sun, trace the limestone
Bones with your feet.
Let the red clover, thrift and grasses
Of the summer cliffs whisper
On your passing ankles. July
Warms your back as it always did.
Waves slide on as they did on your long ago beaches.
Time passes, yet doesn’t.
The yellow vetch and golden lichen,
Colours of a child’s swimsuit in 1967
Are still bright, though your eyesight fades.
There’s peace in entropy.
JAN/FEB 2017 AUTHOR OF THE MONTH at Spillwords.com
A mother of two boys, scribbling from the Western coasts of the UK, mainly poetry, but whatever comes out really. Former journalist and PR professional, the first whispers of middle age and declining eyesight made having a real go at 'real writing' a little more urgent. A Cornish native, I made my home in South West Wales so the sound of the sea sighs through my work every now and then. Lover of nature, yoga, boutique coffee shops and occasional (and very dreadful) surfer.