Time passes;
Disguised in
small parables of
cormorants cries
on a wind-pared sea.
In the dead
of Sunday morning,
cigarette ends and waste paper
chase each other
across a deserted fairground.
The harbour steps cling
to strands of seaweed
and the ghost of footprints,
as a black dog hunts endless waves
past a trawler`s silhouette.
And somewhere,
between what might have beens
there is normality.
A radio`s inanity,
a taste of breakfast,
the Lord`s prayer.
Unmourned,
in this blue
ever-moving stillness,
I walk with
so many of you.
Comments
Bradene | October 18, 2008 - 10:21
This is lovely, so many images that become smells sounds and feelings all mixed together. I love the way you have managed to make it live. Val
Juliet OC | October 19, 2008 - 18:32
The harbour steps cling
to strands of seaweed
i loved that image - a haunting poem.
Juliet
Gilbert | October 22, 2008 - 13:55
Thanks you both for the comments.
G.
Bradene | November 1, 2008 - 18:37
Oh Lordy I've just realised who you are no wonder I keep coming back to your work to read it! talk about Deja vu Val x
Gilbert | November 1, 2008 - 21:40
Val-thank you for your v. kind comments.
I don`t frequent UKA much these days for various reasons,but I remember you well.
Your comments are appreciated.