The wounded and defeated sea lion
after the fight with the other male,
wounded and alone and shuffling onward,
bleeding towards wherever he’s going
to bleed until the end, because the wounds
will fester and reach his marrow, the wounds
with the bitter core with a crust of sorrow,
wounds digging in like time’s roar.
Has he got anything more now to stand for?
I have been wounded, that’s for sure,
but I haven’t fought against any male,
how more evident and even brighter
my wounds would have been in that case
and how pure in contrast with these,
poisoned and invisible in the normal
haze of the day, washed in occasional
rhymes, on the world’s cacophonous strand,
my heart shuffling on and this poem my den.
In very humble homage to Robert Frost whose echoes I distinctly felt, or imagined, in me while this poem was taking shape.