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Kicking the pebbles along Eastbourne beach
as the orange-pink of sunset
plays with the ebbing tide,
my mother asks…
We watch them, hypnotized.Pale and mysterious,They rise and fall. Joe says“They look like ghosts.”
The night was as dark as an ink well,For the moon had gone visiting elsewhere,But by the scuffling sounds around me,I knew there was someone there.
My mother, The Mermaid Queen, wept tiny pearl tears.
For weeks, for months, she cried through the seasons.
High-tide storm-sobbing, would it last for years?