I brush stones off cheap earthworks

marred in wretched waning light

in bars of concrete, platforms drift

and I climb, skirt a boundary.

 

True, they drift, and I a drifter

for four days now, take heart

(what little I can) from the sun

that broke the boats through glare.

 

Now shade, the evergreen snaps

borders straight rule I descry

fringing the house on the hill

but my own hold in iron clasps.

 

Just a little, just a little bit there...

I am shaded as a curtained room

water beckons navy, wreathed, slick

can't seem to get from 'A' to 'B'.

 

In this town, our town, their town

men grown too fast too old

grasp straws through half-light

then turn cold, grey, all nights.

 

I clamber to the edge of the dock

and there can barely seize

the last remaining crumb of reason

before the turning of the tide.