(23 09 1960 / Ireland)

Beachcombing

Hemmed in all Winter behind four walls
On the first fine day the beach calls
By a deep channel flowing into the sea
I follow the tide mark, checking debris

A cluster of empty dog whelk cases
An old leather boot, minus it's laces
Pieces of driftwood, smooth and light
Interesting shapes, sun-bleached white

Some jetsam carried far in a swell
Plastic bottles by a shore crab shell
A seagull's carcass by the reeds
Dried holdfasts of giant seaweeds

A spiral mark on a smooth stone
Each beach has a story of it's own

by Margaret O Driscoll

Comments (1)

Roberts Cove springs to mind, well written Margaret