on a Sunday back to the past that Papa left

on a Sunday
the man returns to the sea
to clean the foreshore
teeming with coconuts
from thick grass
bad grass and beetles
that eat buds and
kill

on a Sunday back
to the past again
clearing some forests
of memories
therein

one seeks a redemption
for what had been
putting some seeds again
as anticipations of
the future
that may never come

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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