The air is a black window of salt-fog and mist, as if the sea were snaking its long fingers up into the hill streets.
I settle down, in this lamplit room, to coax an ear, an eye.
How can I define faithful?
On my tongue the fog tastes like drowning.
There are tales to tell.
And none are true.
...you have me hooked.
ReplyDeleteThe cadences remind me of The Seafarer (y'know, that ancient song/poem/hymn from the Anglo Saxons)--love it so much.
(I should say, the Burton Raffel translation, anyhow...)
ReplyDeletehttp://tatiyana.tripod.com/seafarer.htm
Completely accidental! Just fell out of my fingers this morning . . . I wasn't even thinking of it as a poem-in-process
ReplyDelete