This Summer Boy
This summer boy of tide pools and kelp forests. He plays in waves while grains of an hourglass slip from under his feet. Up to his waist. He’s afraid to move. Afraid to call for help. He hears a chaos of language from the shore. His legs tangle in the long reach of brown and green. Of kelp. He’s rooted in its grasp.
He remembers playing in wheat fields. He found a dead mouse. Poked it with a stick, wanting to prod some life into it. Into its near-dead sleep. But dead is dead.
In the morning, this summer boy’s pale body will be found on the beach, on the damp grains of an hourglass, swaddled in kelp. And his mother shall will God for an answer, “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?”
Written for dVerse Prosery. 144 words. Include the line “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?” – The Wasteland, T.S. Eliot. Photo by Shane Stagner on Unsplash. Shared with #APoemADay on Twitter ©Misky 2021
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