© Bruce Goodman 1 April 2015
The waves ran gentle races for a while,
green and slow, home-come in rows.
Small footprints jollicked to the shore and back and
children saw sea-tulips in the heat
bedded back to sleep.
A shriek of silence seemed to stun the sky.
The gannet stumbled in the air
pierced by the shock of sudden accident.
A lonely island waded in the sea.
I saw through spray a sudden surge of recklessness:
a toppled boat turned slow.
Three children drowned.
There were shells strewn
madly on the
Winter hid the sunken summer.
A bit of moon hung somewhere in the night.
Somewhere in the night
some sunshine sung.
Yes, tonight I dreamed of clouds
screamed to crimson in the mountains.
Stilts stood still at estuaries
and summer came.