(these notes were found on a collection of ancient postcards, the author is unknown but there are those who have seen a bent man walking into the waves without a body being found or anybody reported missing)
can you hear the surge of surfs —
breaking froth on polished rocks?
Have you ever gone to sleep
with skin a crust of salt?
I miss your voice,
every morning here —
awaked by the seagulls calling
I hear the echo
of an ancient man sitting by the docks
“they are souls of those the water took”
I dreamt you came to me tonight,
seaweed in your hair,
pale and cold, carried on a scent of brine,
your seaglass eyes were old.
you never called before you went,
my horizon’s hazed in doubt
I cannot comprehend the waves,
and the seagulls cannot tell.
Kim asks us to write poetry from the seaside at toads. For me the seaside is stark and beautiful. The sea gives and takes, and in the old fishing village where we used to spend our summers there were still old fishermen brimming with stories.
I also intend to link up to poetry pantry tomorrow morning.
July 28, 2019