Gymnopedie no. 1

So this is a poem. I wrote it a year ago. Feel free to leave commentary. I don’t (want to) take offence.


The coarse sand
tickling the soles
of the infant’s feet.
Acres of pebbles
in their various greys
and hues of red,
a carpet of stone.
Smashed up driftwood,
scattered like legos
on the nursery floor.
Clouds speeding past
on the cerulean sky
like the figurines on a mobile
hanging over a baby’s crib.
The sound of the wind
barely drowned by the cries
of black-backed gulls
and the rhythmic waves
beating against the shore.

The wind under her kite,
the wind in her hair,
her mother is but uncertain:
who is playing here with whom?

 

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