by Gideon Burton
More often I would whisper brittle songs
against the water-whittled granite rocks
refusing years of swelling tides, the wrongs
of salt and winter’s every clutching shock.
And whether any errant gull observed
I cannot rightly say. At least the sky
permitted more than any flesh deserved,
however many scabbing questions why,
or casualties I levied in the flow
of apprehension. All the ocean knew
how many gullets cramming with the blows
of pebbled time a mind can yet construe.
Despite all habit: song or feeble prayer,
the atmosphere remains remote and rare.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - itchy73