We are here, 
anchored to a place.
         Hobbled horses 
in a pasture of luck.
                                Our luck 
never lottery good
We make of it what we can 
        but man it could be better

four walls and a tiled roof, 
tied by memory and mortgage 
to a piece of land and a dream of dust

                     by tradition and grey sky 
              when all I want to do is fly. 
       Geese come and go and fly low
along the coast line.

Do you never feel the flow of time
pulling you on. 
          Everything moves, 
                  everything changes, 
except us. 
We are anchored, ships along the pier.

Do you feel the call of the seas, 
even waves are free,
            rolling into the deep, to other
shores and other songs 
under different suns 

               but we are constant. 
Trees rooted in the soil of certainty 
and memory 
roots deep in yesterday

But even time moves.

© Dave Kavanagh @

2 thoughts on “Stagnant

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