Sunday, January 26, 2020

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.

3 comments:

Carlene Gadapee said...

...you have me hooked.
The cadences remind me of The Seafarer (y'know, that ancient song/poem/hymn from the Anglo Saxons)--love it so much.

Carlene Gadapee said...

(I should say, the Burton Raffel translation, anyhow...)
http://tatiyana.tripod.com/seafarer.htm

Dawn Potter said...

Completely accidental! Just fell out of my fingers this morning . . . I wasn't even thinking of it as a poem-in-process