Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Beach Story

Class mother, 1982,
in other words, chaperone
to those half my size
with tiny dramas and shouts of glee
sighting big waves
made for surfers, not us.

Kids ask to wet their feet
One teacher says yes, the other no.

They turn to the least likely judge, me.
I nod yes for twinkles on small faces.
A shriek...and they're all in brine...
My son, leading, as if by accident,
falls in the water, his uniform and all,
followed by the majority.

Wasn't this field trip meant to be
a search for whelk and clam shells?

Such stage show, picking off,
stripping, laying on the sand to dry
kids and clothes...
The teachers discuss PTA reaction,
but my head is down
as I write on wet sand
my thanks to open ocean and whitening waves,
for the thaw of ice in living.

By the way, my son is still the same
as years and joys amass.


Prompt: free-choice or take a field trip somewhere and respond to that in a poem