I would like this poem critiqued if someone has the time (result of several
drafts).
HH
We ride in it
our day begins
with bikes beneath our grip
while jetties stretch
from milk sand to copen sea
and burrowing hills as light as air
our supple feet unfurl a nostril scent
of fishing nets and thawing prawns
inside each harbour ship
and further in from muted bays
we watch a swallow's song on console wing
while blending smiles to film
a largesse of wheat and green
we take to watching surf and walks in furry lanes
soak in the waves that age
an ashen stencil mark in grotto rock
we buckle hats, just the four of us
then ride in it
as bodies do...
Helen Hagemann
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