We Call It Home
This place,
this English coast
where cliffs jut out bones
and prehistoric colours
oversleep in silt,
and where
storm-carved boulders mimic
heroes’ heads,
and alternate worlds
live beneath the sheen
of sea, here in
this place where
wind cycles into ditch
and fells, and
stars top the sky like
spilt milk.
This place is home.
Inspired by Linda Hill’s Prompt 18 January #JusJoJan “cycle” Photo by Ana Paula Grimaldi on Unsplash. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter
Lovely. Only ever went over there once, but we always hankered to go watch the tennis at Eastbourne.
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Eastbourne was always a good option re tennis, I know people who go every year. All the big names, and usually women’s tennis is better than men’s.
We toyed with the idea of getting over to Roland Garros, but I was disappointed when I looked that, even there, prices seemed to be around £1000/day.
And, sport was far less important once I grew up. Even less so now. The only thing I was ever enthusiastic about was the cycling. I used to watch soccer a bit, but when it became about money I stopped. I couldn’t get there now, even if I wanted to.
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I never even knew!
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What a wonderful place to call home. I used to visit a lot when I lived down South!
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Absolutely beautiful. I love the stars as spilt milk and the jut out bones and the wind cycling into ditch and fells. Lyrical and beautiful.
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Ain’t no shoreline here, or anywhere near here, only all those trickling tinklebrooks and lovely glacially-carved lakes, some of which (so they say) are as deep as The Grand Canyon & may harbor some dinoskeltons, but damn, Misky, you sure do capture yours well. I wish I could do that. Have a great day!
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Thank you, but your lakes sound mysterious and also filled with poetry.
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It's Still Life 
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