Coastal Road


The coastal road keeps everything enclosed.
Wild ocean salts the lips and tongue,
Its wind confronts you fully formed,
The winter sun refuses to impose.

Observe the mass of everything you know:
That straw of roads, the churches and
The friends you've lost, advice you spurned,
The breath you wasted questioning the No.

This road is special, cordoning your life -
One side will never let you turn,
The other bleeds into the green.
The windscreen wiper slices like a knife.

You turn your head and contemplate the grey
Simplicity, inconstancy;
You wish there were another way
And take the second left to God knows where.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

World's End

Waiting at the border, it becomes clear: She stands at the edge of the flat earth, The world of her dead father's country behind her, Free fall fate ahead. Surrendering herself To this unknown, she can relent a little, fill her lungs, Feel looked after by the blindness to come. She blinks and, scanning rifled men's tired eyes, Knows everything at once. Knees still lock And seize after months in the smallest nooks; Realisations pepper her now As relief gives way to pain. Forcing a smile at the guards, she curses This brink that lets her see and feel herself again. '...they know I know, they know I know...' plays over in her head And she trips slowly into warm space.
Read more

Sick

When the city breathes you hold your breath. The fog will penetrate your lungs And eat away until there's nothing left. From a garden wall a song is sung. It hovers over lonely souls And wrestles with the pylons' leaden hum. At the traffic lights the notion grows That nothing can hold back the death And everything we knew was predisposed. As she takes her pulse her senses numb. The mask and gloves melt into one And fuse into a new protective flesh.  With the sirens on they feel at rest. There's just a hundred metres left But this is not the way their story goes. Why the city stopped we still don't know. They say it tired of everything And simply couldn't face another day.
Read more

Two Photographs of the Same Poet, Years Apart

While I was busy growing up you were busy getting old, altered from handsome dark-haired party Prof to this sombre grey-bearded power fixing me from the back cover. My turn now to watch things move that should be staying put, look at the young being young, refreshed by long nights in the elements. There's one good thing in all of this: my words resemble theirs but have more weight, the strength to haul and hoist them renewed. Ah yes, the wisdom versus youth debate, and I'd broker both though process perseveres amid the jokes. So there you are smiling, relaxed with glass in hand - all those unborn words - and here, everything bursting out through the eyes.
Read more