in September as days shorten
children hunt conkers
unpicked fruit rots on the trees
leaves turn brown
and me? I take my bike
onto the Hull to Scarborough train
I get off at Flamborough
pedal to the Head,
pick fist-sized chalk stones
at North Landing
and pebbles right for skimming
then ride to an unmarked track,
only hares might run –
it leads to a path
that leads to a chine
I consider mine
a rivulet trickles to the sea
a stunted tree
overhangs the dribbling stream
I date each fresh stone
and place them round the trunk
over time they’ve formed
a necklet of remembrance
I sit on the bank flicking
flat stones to the sea,
that skim a moment
then sink
and in my natural chapel
of stones, stream and stunted tree,
I pray for unborn souls
sluiced from life ten years apart
each visit hugs in my heart:
two infants I begot but never met
two lovers – motherhood declined,
and the regret

© coolhermit 2023
UKA Editor's Pick!
Views: 488
critique and comments welcome.
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We all have our special places we feel we own, if only in our hearts. I love your descriptions in this and the skilful way you lead your reader on to the ending, beginning with the necklet of remembrance. I too have my natural chapel. Beautifully done.


Well deserved pick
Should have got one last time Rick 😉


Beautiful poem. Love the word choices and images.

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