A white gull wails
on a windy beach
some place in time,
if you can call it a beach,
I wouldn’t call it a beach,
I’d call it:
Broken stones
on the earth’s bare bones
with icy breakers
that have no home,
black icy breakers
on a broken beach,
so bruised and broken,
bruised and broken.
A white gull wails
inside this room,
it hovers low,
its shadow looms,
this bare white room,
this lonely room.
so bruised and broken,
bruised and broken.
Broken stones on the earth’s bare bones. I like that.
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thanks oldmainer – this one came virtually in one go – a bit like a chant – I pretty much left it alone.
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Reblogged this on Another Way of Saying.
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My first time reading this one. A lament that goes straight to my heart. I understand this, including the connection to the shore. I go to a beach much like that, not really a beach…
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Thanks very much. I’m so glad you liked this one. I think in truth I’d been staring at a white ceiling for too long and it somehow took me a desolate shore. I should probably get out more.
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We have started going out once a week for that very reason. Park, beach, anywhere natural and possibly green
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Very wise – can be a great source of inspiration.
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And peace..
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