Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Brewster Tidal Flats -- Poetry 2011
A hand full of breeze in your hair -
you run on mud flats at low tide.
Small legs churn splashing in and out
of reflections in low tide puddles.
Setting sun reflects off chestnut curls -
Granddad follows close behind
your darting form heading toward
a flock of Terns and reeling Sea Gulls.
Shadows stretch toward sandy shore
coated with evening sky’s glowing tint.
A spring ten years later nearly stopped all your
forward movement; thought your granddad would
die watching the paramedics pull you back.
Cane in hand, your small legs carry you forward
with a rocking gate - paralytic muscles fail to develop.
There was no portent of the future in the photograph
taken when you were two racing birds on the horizon;
you will always be my runner…