My children spill from the car like herrings
sluiced from a bucket, sheened from back-seat heat.
I school across road these shiny fingerlings
and plant in the sand their water-pale feet.
I peel off coral culottes, yellow tops;
squealing merfolk, their sturdy arms raised
float and sway like anemone on rocks.
Freed, they run naked to the sea's lick, and wave
while I sink to towel, bones like ice cream
under sun. In the cafe kitchens, blue
mussels scrubbed of their anchoring threads, brim
tin pails. I scan for points of my heart's hue -
like Seurat's bather, they cup hand to mouth,
into the luminous silence, they shout.
By Cynthia Woodman Kerkham
I love the atmosphere of this poem, but there are some lines that I cannot quite understand.
Another attempt by Trump to end the war with Iran
So Harry and family are coming back!

