Estuary Poem by Stewart Conn
Estuary
Waking in the small hours the night
before you go into hospital, you press
the palm of my hand to your cheek
so that my wrist, following the line
of your neck, detects its pulse-beat,
making me aware as though we were
on the sandy foreshore of some vast
estuary of the tide's tug, and precious
grains slipping through my fingers.
Thursday, August 4, 2016
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5/3/2024 9:34:22 AM # 1.0.0.1119
