It was
quite a thing to be home,
where all
was made to brace
against the
gale; except his canvas
mind,
that strained the anchor, and
breath that
turned to water on the pane.
He had
written books that tried to mirror
oceans;
black ink could never
catch the
monstrous deep. His maps
were
celebrated, in safe places,
he saw
the lines as nothing but deceit.
His body
felt the gravitas of years
where he
had once been lean and quick
to
flight; the oyster world, that slid
into his
soul; now deep discomfort
through
his lonely nights.
Hi Rob,
ReplyDeleteGreat to have you back.
Another excellent poem, in a minor key.
Another lonely character.
Had this one been germinating for a while?
Cheers,
Dave
Thanks Dave. This one's a re-worked, stripped down version of an earlier poem with the same title. I'm drawn to the relationship between cumulative experience and solitude and the end result not quite fitting together. I suspect I'll write more along those lines as time goes by.
ReplyDeleteA stripped back remix.
ReplyDeleteRob D unplugged!
I can see you working that experience/solitude theme.
keep up the good work.
Dave