An afternoon refreshment:
The foremast disappeared in a white roar of water, so did the cliffs behind us. He nodded, and I reached for the anchor switch, but his eyes said, it was no use, the wind had us - on our ear. If we dragged now, there was no way to get the head round in time.
He gave it more throttle. You gotta give her the fat.
I decided I wouldn't traitor-pray.
Then, like a tap turning off, it stopped. The white cliffs returned, with their crocodile smiles.
And I went down below, to find my voice hiding by the canapés.
YOU ARE READING
Pocket Breath Poems
PoetryAn eclectic and sometimes prickly bunch of poems which will hopefully give you a pocket breath sized piece of my mind. Which may be more or less than enough. Enjoy! Comments and critics welcomed. I'm slowly adding poems, hopefully one a week.
