A Postcard to Whom I Thought I’d Be

vicky 001

These days shine softly after 50 years of rain-
sweat and blood, long dried into a callous hide,
is a chrysalis shed in this season.

Two bold tikes, two and four,
instruct in re-discovery;
Wet each other’s feet with glee,
as in turn attempting to ‘pee’
down the narrow neck of a crab hole.

Swooping seabirds’ surprise attack
upon poorly protected paper sacks
of crinkle-cut potatoes.

A simple display in grace
by seagulls hung like kites.
In the breeze, with effortless ease,
they flow-

The press of Atlantic tide;
a subtle but genuine force.
No castle built of shell and dream
may long withstand its relentless advance.

How soothing winds
with persistence rearrange
textures in sand, surf
and imagination.

Two small boys and I, their guide,
eagerly share near-perfect balance
on a shifting, ever-changing expanse.

To the North is a backbone of jetty,
away South, a centipede pier;
direction, once was an issue for me, for them-
it matters only that I am here.

SS Matthews 2005

Canaveral Pier

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