NOT REALLY A STRANGER

 

I don't know what the right term is

For this kind of tide

It is high but not stormy

Grey flecked with white

Slightly misty, bad tempered

I get the feeling it would like

To burst through the walls

And drown me quietly

 

I stare through the windows

Of a seafront bistro

Designed to show the bay

At its best to visitors

But the waves are not playing

It is only just spring

And winter doesn't want

To go away

 

And I'm not really a stranger

Although I don't live here now

I left something behind

I keep returning to look for

Don't ask me what it is

I don't know

It's somewhere out there

Breaking angrily on the shore.

 

David Subacchi.2016.

From my Collection of the same name.