~KATHRYN STRIPLING BYER~

BEACHWALKERS

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Sand underfoot
we watch day’s
ending come down

to dark while
my mother talks Death
again the blank face
after what was a life

leaves it.  Cool
as a gourd his bald head
to our lips.  In the attic

his granddaughter hides
while his mother keeps
trying to stir up

the dust round
her letters, her words
one by one giving way

to the tide
rolling over
our bare feet. 

 
 

© by Kathryn Stripling Byer