Holiday
There are no tides to speak of,
just a six inch shift to and fro
under the pink shrimp moon.
Coral seams the beach
with its thin red stitches,
the shells and sea glass sewn in to sand pockets.
The reach of a slick rock finger
into the sucking mouth of the ocean.
Grody olive trees plaque around hollow hearts,
cicada beat loud for their emptiness.
Where the once rivers are,
frog pools chorus the dusk
as if each pool were a new star birthing.
Here roundabouts are fig orchards
their elephantine trunks spread like the first tree.
Last years olives are ours
and we swim until our bones are ice.
Susannah Violette
Susannah has had poems placed or commended in the Plough Prize, Westival International Poetry Prize, the Frogmore poetry prize, Coast to Coast to Coast Pamphlet Competition and appeared in various publications worldwide most recently Pale Fire (anthology of contemporary writing on the moon), For the Silent (anthology supporting the work of the LACS), You Are Not Your Rape (anthology of empowerment and overcoming rape) Strix and Eyeflash.
Photo credit @simplelovelyuseful at http://www.unsplash.com
The Beach Hut 