starfish

As we walked
down
Ballyholme Strand,
the sun
bled
the clouds
red
then
orange
then
gold
with
slashes
of
violet
indigo.

As a child,
you picked up
a starfish
maimed
and
disfigured
by the slow
and violent
caress of
the sea.

Without a word,
we placed
it back
with care
into a
stranded
pool.

Ahead
the gulls
circled.

Dawn
broke.



Poetry by Peter Humphreys
Read 582 times
Written on 2007-05-08 at 23:59

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Mark J. Wood
Aren't we all starfish?

Mark.
2007-05-09