Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Calf Pasture

I am eight, and my family

Is on the pier at
The beach. I see the swells

Of Long Island Sound, the

Seagulls emerging from air

And land and sea in a raucous

Chorus. I smell the air wafting

From the cold seawater, and the

Distinctive must of the pier’s old

Weatherbeaten wood. My dad is

Pointing out the islands, and

Grandma is correcting him with

Kind amusement and telling us

Of her own adventures at

Different beaches, in different

Times. And her white glasses

Mimic her white hair as she

Laughs, her purple-weined hand

Clutching a cane, and I

Smile now, in the remembering,

Even though she won’t swim

With us ever again.

6 comments:

MOCA said...

Un très bel écrit d'atmosphère.
De la tendresse et de belles images.
Merci
Moca

kirti said...

it was so nice..

kirti said...

the words yu used so simple n so touchin.. nice!1

Anonymous said...

bit

Anonymous said...

awww i like diss a lot ...................

Goku98 said...

i think your poem was great and i hope there will be more