Salty

Salt on my tongue,

Dissolves sharply into the roof of my mouth.

Salt in the garden,

Sprinkled on the earth to keep slugs away.

Salt along the roads,

Keeping slippery ice and snow at bay.

Salt over our bodies,

Drying on our skin after swimming in the ocean.

But my favourite salt

Covers the rim of my margarita glass.

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Secret Shrine

Through the streets I wandered,

Meandering as I went,

And as I walked I pondered,

What lay just round the bend.

 

Heat was blazing down on me,

From the August sun,

Let loose on holiday, I was free

My plans for the day all done.

 

What I then saw before my eyes

I did not expect to find:

A glowing shrine, quite large in size,

Light and darkness intertwined.

 

Under an arched ceiling, candles abounded:

Plaques of thanks covered the wall,

Cobblestones beneath my feet were rounded,

From centuries of footfall.

 

Sometimes, without the guidebook

You come across that special place,

Which makes you stop and take a look,

And wonder in its grace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Book at the Beach

At the beach, my favourite place,

The wind blowing my hair into my face,

A stranger approaches to chit chat;

To be polite about this and that.

 

Amongst the grassy dunes, sandwich in hand,

My toes drying out in the gritty sand,

The ice cream van goes tinkling past,

So I go to buy a Fab at last.

 

Near the end of the pier I’ve opened my book,

But now I’ve got to take another look

At the surfers, learning to surf down below

Falling and splashing everywhere they go.

 

I lie down to sunbathe under blue skies,

Yet clouds roll in over seagulls’ cries,

As the rain starts to fall and won’t leave me alone

I decide it’s best if I just go back home.

 

Here on the sofa with tea at my side,

I don’t have to worry about high or low tide;

I’m determined to see, by hook or┬áby crook,

Whatever will happen next in my book!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Through the Grove

Crushed leaves underfoot

From the orange trees above us

As we stomp through the grove,

Loudly,

To scare away any snakes

Who might be lurking,

Although we rarely see them.

 

Rotting skin of fallen oranges

Decaying in the dried grass;

Streams of ants

Rushing to and from the fruit

As you splash in the puddles

Made by the old green hose.

 

We stack small stones,

Rake the dry dirt together,

Draw with twigs along the ground,

Water the weeds.

 

So many questions

Which I had never thought about;

You help me see the world

Through new eyes,

With new wonder.

You make me realise

How little I know.

 

The scent is beautiful

From the orange leaves:

Inhaled and gone in an instant,

As these days will be,

When I look back on them.