Nana Ollerenshaw: Four Poems

Going Barefoot   Shoes are unused kicked off for summer. I embrace the informality of feet, bare as birth, as simple. Nothing lies between the earth and me, hard packed dirt, sun stored searing heat in streets, on grass or rock, the floors of cinemas, sand and wooden piers, toe-dug clams in mud, the wide sloping floors of our old summer house. My feet grow tough as hide, meet surf and tiles and chewing gum, darken sheets with where they’re from. I cast aside the rest-of-year’s conventions, those who think bare feet are crass, know freedom and a half-forgotten wildness…

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