He left a lucky woollen cap
On a bedside table
Dusty trap
The drawers semi closed
An old magazine
And the throws lay neat
In cupboard moth holes spoil the pleats
Of fabric
no one in this room
blinds half drawn
And the ravage of winter
Has almost torn through
tiles are slipping
porcelain sink stained
a dripping, corner tap
waters lime-scale, a dull cream track
To plughole.

He made the bed
So sure he was coming back

With storms very best bluster
The muster man on deck
The fishing man flecked
With salt from those crashing waves
Magnificent this cruise through
Life for him a breeze
To the onlooker the bring to knees
Of how he does it
Meagre existence half life shank
He is tied and not forgotton

Happy nets, no more no less

He made the bed
He thought he was coming back

His little lucky green hat frayed
He left it there
At the limp elastic rim slipping grip
It must have fitted snug
As he filled that sink tip
rubber plug ocean pulled
On his way to sea
The missing man limps
a sinking tide within
accepting and happy, a plunging stone
A Valhalla man
A toothless grin I’m sure
the Davey crockets entertain skeletons

Such tidal days passed
so quickly weeks stacked
And in the end years
And after that
Decades form the rack
A lifetime shelf
A life blue, to green, to grey elf,
crumbling neptune,
the barter wealth.
Last bastion fisherman,
Fades a wave's coral shelf

gone.



1-12-2007