There is a line in a book that says:
She clings to the trees, still
Like a sea grape; not
Yet ready for life or love.
Sweet sea grape ripens,
Green flesh turns purple;
The wine of our shores,
The jam of our homes,
A fruit of our land.
Clinging to the vine,
Clustering closely,
Stabilising sand.
The sea grape straddles shorelines
Man will erode without care;
It will not go gently
Into that bad night:
It sees, bears witness
To the sands of time.
The sea grape;
Wind, salt, drought
Scares it not.
The sea grape clings to hope,
Clustering closely to the vine,
Settling in for life and love,
Defying destruction,
Denying desolation.
Editor’s note: This poem won first prize this month in the adult division of the National Parks Trust’s annual Arbour Day Poetry Competition.
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