Plea II

Saturday night and an April
Wind  sings tight round the
Black slates decking the
Wooden   strutted arms of
This  old cottage.

Out  there the sea
Churns  its dark blue veins,
Foaming  froth rails and tosses
Up  the night air
Stings its surface
With  its own spray endlessly

And   inside in the pointed
Light  of an anglepoise I sit,
Read  words  on a page,
 Afraid of the future
 Afraid the affray to come
 Is beyond my  capability;

 Beyond  the bones
 Of a future time I am
 Setting gingerly with such
 Structured hope.  I want
 To be  boomerang
 But  not land at my starting
 Point.  O let me elope

 In peace, please let me
 Spin through  space
 Twisting, free, I want
 To  arrange to be me, to be
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem