Pour moi, l’eau c’est la plage Où vit ma grand-mère, Les grands ours bruns Qui rôdent autour de la maison, L’océan qui me chante une berceuse, Le bateau de mon oncle qui part À la pêche. Pour moi, l’eau C’est une vague salée. For me, water is the island Where my grandmother lives, The big brown bears That creep around the house, The ocean that sings me a lullaby, My uncle’s boat that goes out fishing. For me, water Is a salty wave. Ella Csuros, 8Montreal, Canada
Poetry-Sense-of-Place
My Sag Harbor
The heavy door is embellished With a whale knocker And on the side a doorbell That no longer rings. You walk up the porch steps And turn the cold metal knob Pushing against the force That never wants you to open the white door. This is my Sag Harbor. The houses are small With dogs running out in the yard As you walk into the town. Pass the little ice cream parlor And the restaurant with live lobsters Watching you pass with fishy eyes. And pass the toy store Crowded with kids Holding quarters to get their turn on the Coin-operated fire engines. This is my Sag Harbor. A shimmering turquoise is the color of the Wharf. Where huge crew ships, Put down their anchors, And tie themselves to the dock. The sailboats can be seen for miles, Clipped to their buoys, Floating on the surface like butterflies, In a peaceful order, Until a motorboat comes racing through, Creating waves. At the beach you see the rolling sand dunes, And the pebbles that litter the lining of the incoming wave. Like lace the rocks encircle each other, On the wet sand contrasting beautifully with The deep blue of the ocean, And the lighter sky. This is my Sag Harbor. Charlotte Robertson, 11New York, New York
