If you were to walk,
To where the bay curves,
There is a cove with fishes,
And slippery clay,
Grey and squelched,
Between toes;
Here is where we played,
Under the seagulls call,
Between the fishing boats;
Watching "Red Funnel"
Make straight lines
For France.
In my rocking horse sundress,
Red plastic sandals,
I collected shells and
Coloured pebbles,
Splashed in the warmed
Sea water and thought of
Robinson Crusoe.
My brother climbed
The cliff face above,
I watched him, still young,
My heart beating time.
And so we suddenly left,
Grew away from childhood,
From each other,
Drifted as the seaweed,
In and out with the tide.
Floated looking at the sky,
Calling out sometimes
To the echo of the bay,
For all those days of sunshine,
Of innocence and oneness,
Never to return as we were then,
Children on a beach at play.
Love to my brother ,Richard from Mary **
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
If you were to walk,
To where the bay curves,
There is a cove with fishes,
And slippery clay,
Grey and squelched,
Between toes;
Here is where we played,
Under the seagulls call,
Between the fishing boats;
Watching "Red Funnel"
Make straight lines
For France.
In my rocking horse sundress,
Red plastic sandals,
I collected shells and
Coloured pebbles,
Splashed in the warmed
Sea water and thought of
Robinson Crusoe.
My brother climbed
The cliff face above,
I watched him, still young,
My heart beating time.
And so we suddenly left,
Grew away from childhood,
From each other,
Drifted as the seaweed,
In and out with the tide.
Floated looking at the sky,
Calling out sometimes
To the echo of the bay,
For all those days of sunshine,
Of innocence and oneness,
Never to return as we were then,
Children on a beach at play.
Love to my brother ,Richard from Mary **
This is a copyright poem in an anthology called
the paddling pool and other poems by Mary Kearns