Saturday, 8 December 2012

Fear and Melancholy

Through a perspex sheeting I can see
a massive ocean pushing out her strokes;
knowing, for a time, I won’t be caught
and pulled into her cold eternity.
With all the power sea invokes,
whitened by salt, let’s not fight!

Flight! This is no place for single human power
and not because I’m older, slow in years,
unerringly losing dignity.
No! Because, unending, hour by hour,
those waves push into solid stone with tears;
unlevelled water has no fear or pity.

Poet, move on! Feeling I will stand inevitably
one day and turn back towards the flow;
against those tumblers’ sure retreat, advance,
and so re-enter sweet eternity,
traveling fast but also, even, slow.
That day the waiting sea will take my sense.

Wednesday, 5 December 2012


Today, relaxing, floating,
I’m lifted by a milky sea until
the sirens call and sing
and down I dive into a deeper chill.

That’s when I start to swim
up and on towards a golden rim
and stand again as I had once begun;
welcomed home into Byzantium.

Sunday, 2 December 2012

Yeats could feel

a desire to be young,
greener than springtime trees,
and sing assembled songs
to sweetly hit top C’s,

and play like butterflies
(less caring how land lies)
ignore the path – so long
- that leads into Byzantium.