The passing bellied ships she taught them by
To count the hours, archive them in silt
In silent tongues ‘till she resigns
Late millions a day.
But now the nursing tide expands
Onto the ragged honeycomb of stone,
Unbuttoning her mighty bosom
To let her children play.
So millions of slimy hands
Of broken-mirror skin and salty eyes
Will chase each other’s tails and bubble
In foaming disarray,
Until enough the ships do hoot
To mock the overflowing time;
Then she will gather her unruly school
And huddle them away.
Playground
© Copyright: София Король, 2021
Свидетельство о публикации №121092703901
Свидетельство о публикации №121092703901
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