Psamathe
She doesn’t wear shoes in the summer.
She likes the way the ground feels
In the creases of her curled up toes
She hooks them into the sand
Beneath the marram grass
And stands
An arrow pointing to the sun
The wind runs a wrinkled hand through her hair
And I watch her from the path
Feet pushing five inch spears
Into the rocky ground.
Copyright © Gracie Bawden | Year Posted 2012
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