A poem about my country home


The sea spits in your face
while white stones
graded into their whiteness by time
stare idly at the midday sun

Trees squeak songs behind me
and I imagine them talking
exchanging images of passersby
and memories of a harsh winter

It’s autumn now
Leaves of this island will drift
from green to red to nothing
and the stones will idly stare
at the sea falling into snow

 

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