across mudflats in
my blue gum boots,
over crackling oysters,
shells, green-ribbed pipes, the trace of birds.
When the tide is out, what lies exposed:
river threads of mud, old brown stones,
tiny mussel still to grow:
My sole prints lefts
on the ocean bones.
Poem by
Sarah Penwarden
ReplyDeleteHi my name is Briea, I am from grey main school. I like your poem it is well done. It reminds me of a creek .