Victoria Mosley

 

Sand flats

lie silver like

 

stretch marks

across the bay:

 

I think of you,

the old way

 

fondly:

neglect to call,

 

expose the  past

to spring pollen.

 

Sand underfoot

sun burns

 

light throws

leaf shadow

 

on times wall.

 

Our pocket

universe

 

has flown.

 

Birds nest;

blossom tumbles

 

spring wind’s

incoming.