Low Tide by Sarah Penwarden
I walk beside you
across mudflats in
my blue gumboots,
over crackling oyster
shells, green-ribbed pipi,
the traces of wading birds.
When the tide is out, what lies exposed:
river threads of mud, old brown stones,
tiny muscles yet to grow;
my sole prints left
on the ocean's
bones.
No comments:
Post a Comment