The beach is more a desert now,
the sea has run away somehow;
to drown myself the waters lack
in empathy, they won’t allow.
If I wait long, the sea comes back,
(if not belated by some wreck),
whom can I trust to help me go?
My footsteps are a desperate track.
The table of the tides I know
by heart but sea deceits me so,
there’s only sand and shells to see.
I shall not feel defeated though.
Six hours I shall wait and be
the patient suicidal me
and then the water does the deed
and I am swept off both my feet.
This poem is not about me personally, as I have no intentions to do myself in, but when I saw the beach looking deserted, I could very well imagine how it would feel. The rhythm was inspired by the poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost.
The murmuration shaped itself into a giant bird,
and swiftly moved as one, a joyful flirt with sea and sky,
I don’t know why they did so for my very eyes.
They did it with no wings colliding, their unity
made me feel humble as a human, as far
away from murmuration seemed humanity to me.
I doubt the place exists
– the ruins of a Roman house
on an island far from world,
overgrown, a labyrinth of rooms.
When children, cats and friends have left us,
we watch the sun set every night.
There’s a piano for the ghost to play on
and an antique harp, fondled by the wind;
sometimes they play together.
We have no garden but wild flowers grow
on old fundaments. We live
from what the Romans planted
and we find to eat. Sometimes
you leave me and row ashore
returning with chocolate and wine.
When you are here more and longer
to do the stuff I can’t, and me 🙂 ,
we watch how poppies grow, dandelions.
One day we shall take the boat out
to sea, leaving for ever in a mist,
leaving no trace –
I doubt the place exists.