Children Only
The Beach
Creux Harbour
The Shell
Beachcomber
A poem by George Mackay Brown
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Poems
The following poems are taken from "Location Writing" by Brian Moses
and Caroline Davey.The book is available from David Fulton Publishers,
Amazon and on loan from the
Guilles Allez Library. Many schools
already have this in their libraries.
Clicking on the poem
title on the left takes you straight to the poem, or you can scroll down
the page.
L'Ancresse Bay, Guernsey, 2001.
The Beach
Waves crash down on the shore sending foamy splashes
into the atmosphere.
Pebbles scatter and rattle as the bright clear ocean
smashes over them.
The force of the roaring waves push and pull the stones
closer and closer.
Closer into the secret depths of the beautiful living sea
Where schools of fish rule the reefs and guard
the hidden sea beds.
Back up above, the seagulls hover and glide
though the air.
Keeping a watchful eye over the seaside.
The cliffs tower above like giant hands waiting to grab
but are frozen in place.
Fishy odours fill the air and mix with the salty sea smell.
I wander between the sharp rocks,
The sun glistens, the ocean glitters.
Written by Stacy Cummins
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Creux
Harbour
The building, dented and marked and rusty
...........crane stand,
a memory of when men launched boats by hand
...........the bobbers, some spakling new, some old age.
A rusty old boat trailer, paint marks on it,
its life nearly over.
Old bits of wood, marks all over,
oil stains as well, disgusting.
Written by Sabrina, while looking at Creux Harbour,
Sark.
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The Shell
This
shell reveals secrets from the deep.
I hear the ghostly love calls of Moby Dick,
the distressed voice of a weeping mermaid,
I hear the terrified cry of a sailor
being crushed by the claws of an unknown creature.
i hear the ancient groans of stranded dolphins
and caves that give away echoing secrets
of hidden treasure.
Written by Samantha Harding.
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Beachcomber
Monday I found a boot
-
Rust and salt leather.
I gave it back to the sea, to dance in.
Tuesday a spar of timber worth thirty bob.
Next winter
It will be a chair, a coffin, a bed.
Wednesday, a half can of Swedish spirits.
I tilted my head.
The shore was cold with mermaids and angels.
Thursday I got nothing, seaweed,
A whal bone,
Wet feet and a lud cough.
Friday I held a seaman's skull,
Sand spilling from it
The way time is told on Kirkyard stones.
Saturday a barrel of sodden oranges.
A Spanish ship
was wrecked last month at The Kame.
Sunday, for fear of the elders,
I sit on my bum.
What's Heavan? A sea chest with a thousand gold coins.
By George Mackay Brown
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Guernsey2005
- Year of the Sea