Friday 22 November 2013

#30 - Another Word For Explore

This is the river. The boatman leans on a hazel wand;
he snorts when you press a groat into his curiously soft palm.
The coin of the realm is memories.
He does not ask for all of them - just a good one.

You offer the first disappointment of cooking chocolate,
the bitterness of that pilfered slab,
but he shakes his head.

The calm behind the windbreak, then.
The scent of rush mats and lotion,
the red hoods of eyelids under sun.

Not enough.

Please, you say. Not her eyes.
Not the tides they set sluicing through your chest.
But already you feel their heft,
see the watering of the boatman's mouth.

No comments:

Post a Comment