Monday, 28 October 2013

1 New Poem


The clouds clear here in five minute spurts
looking out and waiting, waiting for their passage,
waiting, searching out the sun beneath the crackle
of black ice, squeal of import car tires,
waiting, thinking of all the things I would have done
were it not for their tide-like forms.

Stuck in the state between two FM stations,
I have never wanted for much given daily bread and wine,
that which tied hands tight was not rusted wire,
nor shackles of word and deed but those self-fastened;
a flit of birds was better lucked, the salmon schools
swimming seemed the greatest fun with them.

But, sickly, shivering, I could not see their worth.

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