Brought back by chance, by the tide, exactly.
TIDE
It’s high now, almost level with the dam
that could be a raft floating
stung by the glare of the sun.
It’s all vast, gently rising
and falling, lingering, you can’t but sense
an endless waiting even if
there is nothing to wait for.
Now it could be much easier to step in,
you could let yourself do it, sliding slowly,
no splash, no noise and then
you would travel and rest and be
not much different from now, a cluster
of veins and glances in the sun,
speckled endeavours in the waves’ large arcs,
digressing towards the horizon.
2 comments:
Excusing the pun, this poem flows brilliantly. Liked the image of the dam as a raft.
The tide seems to me to contradict the notion of chance wonderfully here. As Gordon says, this poem flows brilliantly.
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