Thursday, 18 August 2016


The great mill far out to sea
Unfurls giant sheets of mottled blue-green, hammered by winds
Torn edge, white core, it flutters by the charred remnants of the ragged land.
A desiccated map, now over-grown by moisture, mold and mildew.
Oil on glass, a cracked table-top, reflects badly the blue,
Scuffed with impossibly optimistic clouds;
A child's imagination of a sky.
Each sheet, a page, tells the story of the coming and going.
Whole lives drawn out upon the hours and tides.
The mill, relentless, driven by unknowable celestial forces, turns.
New pages unfurl, through the press of ancient knowing;
Hands, caresses, promises and glances.
Fortunes, shining dreams. Loss.
Despair, deceit, wonder, horror.
Greetings and goodbyes.
Each written in the lightest hand.
Palimpsest; washed, scratched, scrubbed, rewritten by sea and sand and cliffs and time.
Too long ago even now to be forgotten.

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