Haven’t tangoed with a nettle patch today
nor held a frightened stranger’s hand
nor knelt, in awe, to silently pray
or collected weirdness I don’t understand.
No scarlet dresses dancing in my dreams
or whole days lost to a child’s world,
no winter paddling in crystal streams
no marvelling as rusty bracken fronds unfurl.
Haven’t fed the seagulls today,
nor walked alongside the dawn moon
not licked the mist of iced sea spray
nor heard masts chiming to an East wind’s tune
no bare feet cut on sharp seashells
no small and imperfect agonies
nor seaweed fingers ringing death knells
to swaddle my imperfect day’s tragedies.
Beverley Carron enjoys writing drabbles, short stories and poems. She also makes very strange art, which she frequently abandons in the dead of night for lucky finders to take home.