A Day At The Pink Beach

An umbrella being dragged at the day's end.

A seagull churns its wings,
avoiding sunlight,
the hard flight of Icarus.

Pink swimsuits blown in the wind,
in search of due course.

Time is needy, a bronzed babe walks by, a regular
statue of Liberty, her flesh turning to
green palor as the water cools.

In this empty beach dream of deepening sky,
the wet Kremlin and White House

are eroded as our childless hopes.

An old woman collects
seashells-caverns of poverty
to be sold to our deaf ears.
The ocean roars of stolen property.

by MARINA GIPPS

Comments (3)

wow..pink beach..i longed to visit it one day..but wait..its not me running after the blown seductive garment...anyway...i just want to carve a smile in your face...nice poem my dear...i like the last line...when the ocean roared because of stolen property...i believe literally its true...
Nice poem. One can catch the flavour of the beach. But 'palor' should be spelt 'pallor', and you need the long dash between seashells-caverns, like this: seashells - caverns. The last line is excellent.
Very nice work Marina. 10 from Tai