Bob Orr

Middle of winter
we slept on the shore
because we couldn’t
afford a motel.

Beneath the cliffs
we lay on a ledge
as the tide
glossed over each
outcropped rock.

White stars
uplifted on waves
clicked into
stone.

I remembered you
in a bed sitter
the bar heater
burnt until dawn

a roseate glow
to brighten
the white blur
of yr skin.

Today the freesias
in a jar on the kitchen
table delicately foam
on the shore

of another land.

© Bob Orr

Comments
Last updated 11 May 2001