Mother Turtle

She comes up.
Slowly letting
Pushing, pulsing,
Waves
Send her
Over the
Um-swim-able
Shallows
Onto a beach.

She lands,
Her flippers
And great mass
Heaving, Straining,
As they inch up the shore.

On she goes,
This silent mother turtle,
One,
Two,
Pull myself
Over the coarse, rough,
Uncultured grains
Of sand.

It is lonely here.

But then she stops.
Here.
Not there.
Not there.
Not over there.

Right here.

On this quiet, foreign,
Beach.

¼ of 60 minutes,
A quarter of an hour.
Time to lay the eggs.
Here.

Time to release those
Little ones,
That she loves,
Though she cannot stay.
But she will lay the eggs,
If that is the last thing
She
Shall do.

Carefully now.

Now, it is nearly over.

They are laid now.
Now, to bury them
Under sand,
Coarse,
But willing.

Flap, flap, plop, pat-pat.

Her leathery, age-worn flippers
Throbbing tiredly,
As she sends the sand
Flying over her,
Landing over
Her eggs.
Again, again, again.

Flap, flap, plop, pat-pat.

Done.
The Birds shan’t get them now.
It is finished,

She hobbles down.

Straight line
To the
Sea.

Exactly where her own mother
Had once,
Old ages ago,
Slipped off to her
Home,

And waited for
God the Mighty
To light the spark of life
In a
Little, baby,
Turtle.