Frank Ledwell (1930-2008)


When our children have gone at last,
we’ll go and live by the ocean shore
on the far side of the lake. We’ll cock our
ears to catch the surf’s crashing against
the dunes. Whenever the wind howls and
our electricity fails, as it surely will,
our kerosene lamp will make a glow
around our narrow space. We’ll wage war
at cards until the tide’s retreating — its
trumps all played out — draws us back
to serenity. I will be old, you still young,
or relatively so. We’ll munch on mussels
and dulse to keep healthy, and crush
lobster shells to fertilize our flower patch.
We’ll count the time that’s left to us
from day to day — not years. We’ll stay
till the time must come for us to cross.

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