Little blue butterflies with the white -
oh, a yellow, and an orange too,
along the sea-defences.
Thistles are seeding, their air bearding;
who is to care?
The bees, the big, hive-bees,
and little amber wild ones, with flies
and butterflies are chaining
the last mustard-flowers,
A sand martin, sleeks
over the tops, takes a bee,
crazy, mini Hawker-Siddeley-Harrier.
We walk on chaff-like seed-pod-halves
of dried mustard, dusted over the path.
Up to waists, yet so far out,
flat sea filled with cloud-lit bobbing
suggesting there a fin : shark, dolphin -
always a distance. To hell with wars, swim.
Sand martins play a merry
take-it-in-turns recurrence over dunes,
a better feeding. Wise, evil, flies
are stuck to sand, as I would be.
I don't know who I am. But I'm no longer yours.
I pick samphire again with my daughter.
Oh we will all eat it all, voraciously.
..
YOU ARE READING
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
