Sunday, November 22, 2015

PENINSULA


On this leeward beach
serrated coast
we’ve been cast ashore.
‘Enjoy the last of summer,’ 
they said, as they sailed for home.

Old people –
crinkled smiles,
chatter of the deaf,
500 hens in a cage,
the occasional strutting male,
rooster of the brood.

‘Tomorrow night’s the raffle,’
one grandma croaks,
shrugging off impending death
raising trivial sums
for wives of drought-wracked farmers
in the hinterland.

‘Do you make or write or paint?’ I ask.
‘No.  We’re resting,’ I am told.

Does anyone escape?



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