Whisper winter’s silence
all still but the empty cold waves
enticing me to roll
along the tumbling shore.
Shadows of a rusty kneed
laughing boy
who has long since
relinquished his dreams of
summer joy.
I stand where he played.
As close as my feet
shoed, stockinged
where his bare ones
moved across desert beach
building worlds of
sand-grain fantasy.
His heroes are
not mine.
My fantasy is
over the dancing water,
My heroes sink slowly
their tired heads
beneath the waves.
I wait.

Denise Nicholas

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