Poetry- Pauline Flynn


At twilight by a low stone wall,
a small boy in pyjamas holds a glass box
full of fireflies, points to his father
swinging a net in wild choerography
in the ricefield under the roard.
He lifts the glowing cube to the faces
of the strange couple who pass by,
skips away with delight.
From their guesthouse the man sketches
the scene across the water, the woman reads
ghost stories by Lafcadio Hearn.
Beneath the veranda the sea pulses
its ostinato, laps the moored boats,
the harbour wall.


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