Many years ago we spent some time at Folly Beach in Charleston, SC. We often stayed in an old beach house called the Walker House. The Walker family owned it, I suppose. The following poem was written from memories of when we were young, newly married, and we stayed there, but the image given is of two older people, the way we were when I wrote the poem.
The Walker Beach House
The house leans slightly toward the sea,
weathered silver by wind, rain and molten
streams of sunlight. The front porch stretching
north to south is furnished with a creaking
glider and two chairs that huddle and sag
like an old couple waiting for their sunset.
On the clothesline, two red towels flap
in a giddy summer folk dance. Precious
sea oats nod atop the tallest dunes.
I make my way along the narrow path between them
to the Atlantic lapping in eternal rhythm.
My artist mind brushes clouds on the horizon,
blending sky with the water’s line.
I find you there sprawled on a blanket
smelling of coconut, defying the Big C
as you bake brown. My sandy foot nudges
yours and rasps you awake. We trudge
the path and shower by the porch.
After lunch we sleep together in Walker's bed.
From Now Might as Well Be Then, Poetry by Glenda C. Beall, Finishing Line Press, 2009
So not only did you teach me about writing memoir, you also taught me about reading and thinking about how others write memoir. Thank you so much! Rebecca