Down the beach, in the ocean dust,
families cluster around plastic buckets,
rig lures, bate hooks,
the clusters are like barnacles,
poles extended to sweep the surf.
At the top of the beach a tarp is rigged
in the driftwood, grandma tends a fire,
"we'd be better off cooking the bait."
Just beyond the surf,
three red-throated loons dive.
Down the beach, in the ocean dust,
gulls cluster around a sand shark
grandma refused to cook,
she drew a line in the sand.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Preston Beach
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
5 comments:
Great description.
I'm liking that grandma.
What a lovely poem! It takes me back to my own beach days, though we went crabbing and I was the one who didn't want to cook them later. :) I can almost smell the breeze, laden with salt and the scent of fish.
Wonderful description..
readingless days
Kill Word Verification
Preston Beach in Swampscott? Probably a little too civilized for this, but then I once saw huge jellyfishes come in there like red Persians squirting through Thermopylae.
Post a Comment