Magic in his fingers
drew from the strings of his cello
the soft sound of a gentle surf
breaking on a beach;
flushing straggly seaweed
between the outcropping rocks
before frothing back
across the sodden sand.
He’d come, he said, to help us explore
the poetry hidden in music,
and wanted us to write
words which his music prompted.
As he played, I drifted into a day dream,
and let form on my closed eye-lids.
the picture of receding wavelets
playing tag with those which,
seaweed-laden,
flowed in to replace them.
A picture on which to base
the poem he expected me to write.
A contest entry
- Opening Lines Prompt by SandhyaSuri.
930 points, ended February 27, 14 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - Honorable Mentions by queenie.
1800 points, ended April 8, 34 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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this piece drew me in. i was there as this was written. this has a very realistic quality. thanks for entering.
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queenie
Thankyou for your very complimentary comment.
Best wishes from 'down-under'.
Shenton
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