Wednesday, July 07, 2004

I=M=A=G=I=N=E Poetry

I’m home and exhausted, but have this imaginary poem to share from Little Hunter’s Beach in Acadia, a cobblestone shore of countless rounded rocks. After every wave, there’s a swirling clatter made as the water returns through the stones. Listen:

1 comment:

Dave said...

I remember going to beaches like that as a kid and just stuffing my pockets with pebbles. Nothing could match the disappointment of getting home and preparing to gloat over my hoard, only to find that it had somehow turned into a pile of dull-colored stones!