Damp Pages

Evenings sluggish arrival.
Really. So July in every way!
The gay days of summer for some.
Sand, sun and mostly rain.
Such a pain.
But there you are
and poetic licence only stretches so far.
After all, its Ireland.

An old salt stands silent.
on the high harbour wall.
He won’t fall, legs steady
from years of lurching and pitching
on uneven seas. On boats and rafts
and other craft of various degree.

(Angled for anglers and re-canted for wranglers)

He stands on hot pebbles
ankles and soles bare and burning
in the afternoon malaise of grey.
A summers day
but hey we already covered that
so lets not rub it in.

He is feeding his life,
in bite sized pieces to passing terns
and circling gulls, a gilly bird cuts in
but is chased away again
by the wandering albatross
who wonders what its all about.

“Here” calls the old tar,
grab a chapter.
Crumbs tossed to still winds,
floating down on updrafts.
Down down to drown in brine
where fish will dine on days for weeks.

Its all spent, pages rent
in hunks and chunks and skin (he is so thin)
the pocket change of days remaining
blowing in the wind.
(“Hey that’s a great line”)
he finds the covers remain,
can not toss them in to the wash of sea
and tide to ride the current where it goes.
Life dripping from the tepid floes.

He turns, shoulders hunched in a shrug
And in a surge of speed he leaves.
He has flittered and frittered
the book of life, the work the woes and strife,
every last page to the end of old age
and yet here he stands an ancient man.
Its a damn outrage!

He wanted thunder, he wanted fame.
An end to this lame existence.
He got instead damp pages drifting
in the rain. And this damn weather,
but sure its summer all the same.
And tomorrow he can try again.

 

© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com

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