By Jenny Macaulay.
The squelch of her boot
the left then the right
the decay of seagrass that lines the shore
like ropes of filthy foam from an outgoing tide.
She steps over those ridges of strangled syringes
of nylon line and bleached fish bones
the latter a memory of a time
when the sea sustained edible life.
A hovercraft disgorges its passengers
like maggots emerging from the carcass
of roadkill.
They are swept away to their inland hotels
Away from the stench of the coastline
that oozes and globulates
around the debris
of times gone by.
She whistles the dog
coughs… and heads home
before the stink of the sun…
and she thinks of frogs.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jenny facilitates fiction, non-fiction, poetry and drawing groups, encouraging people to come together and share their creative skills. She recently established the Portarlington Haiku Society, an enthusiastic group which, together, is learning about the simplicity, yet complexity, of this short poetry form. A retired teacher, Jenny is keen to promote and maintain an interest in creative writing among other retirees as a form of enjoyable social interaction without any excessive literary expectations.
Guenter
Wow, what imagery! A bleak and foreboding poem, and hopefully one that will create enough stench for our political decision-makers to finally take immediate action. (A virtual hug to you Jenny.)
Kate norman
She does think of frogs indeed
Thanks Jen