The shifting sands
Call up the memories
Long-buried, in estuarine silt -
The scent of salt-flat samphire,
And drying seaweed
Carry on a tepid breeze,
And I remember that hill;
The place that grew me.
A headland, strong,
Named for a Viking woman;
Her face scarred by the cliffs,
And pockmarked by caves
Where the archaeologists dug,
To reveal ancient bones and flint,
Much older than her name.
How many have been lost
Under these shifting sands?
How many of my memories,
Have died a death here?
There are some things which
Are better left undisturbed.
Hunfrith knows -
But she will not utter a word.
-
Author:
SerenWise (
Offline) - Published: July 28th, 2019 20:17
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 28
Offline)
Comments2
You capture the very essence of place here in this compelling poem of powerful memories. An amazingly vivid picture and painted with fervent word-skill - - thanks for sharing Hunfrith's Head with us Seren.
In my view, I think may be among your best yet... almost certain of it..
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