An Echo of Ocean Comments

A dark November evening
in the house of my grandmother
sharp skeletons of trees
scraped and creaked,
scratching window panes.
Folded within her old shawl,
I sat by the range, turf glowing red
behind the black—toothed grimace
of the grate. Around me, they murmured,
weaving the endless web of scuffles, scandals,
schedules of funerals, of news from those
in Australia and America
and the lives of locals, of old friends and enemies,
centuries of our blood mingled, mixed
in this rough, rocky soil.
I nestled further into my nook
sombre orphan
pressed my cheek to her chest
until all I heard was the steady, sturdy
thump of her heart, the ebb and flow
of ceaseless tide, an echo
crashing through cliff caves.
...
Read full text