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This poem is from the brand-new seaside-themed collection written by me and Eve Nortley, "Driftwords".




The heat out here is palpable,

A presence that can curse or caress,

Its touch is physical.


By afternoon I await the dark,

Distant but it will still come.

The sky turns hazy,

"Forest fires" say locals.

Algarve ash falls like dark snow and sorrow

On the beach.


Something is changing,

There is finality in this fiesta.

Text and technology falter and fail.

I find myself seeking smoke signals,

Tide tables, sailors' forecasts,

Star signs from above.

I repeat old words said to me

Like sacred mantras, ancient creeds,

Prayers to fill the vacuum

Of my need.


A line is being gouged in the sand

And the world will change

For me, for them, for her, for you,

All slipping through my trembling hands.

I'm waiting for your signal

To rise above the deep, dark blue.

◄ Our Chains Are Invisible But No Less Real

Extra Time ►


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Martin Elder

Mon 10th Jun 2019 09:04

I love the whole notion of the third stanza making reference to all those ideas of
'Tide tables, sailors signals' and so on

Nice one Chris

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