No wind and not a ripple
on the face of reflection,
lull a fool into a false sense
of gentle melancholy.
The rocks are dry.
No moss or frost rime their grey
no waders dark and shining
on this clear autumnal morning.
I cast to dead centre
aim to hit a sweet spot.
Trout and pike live side by side.
Here, the Merid dies on October’s high tides.
Maura, my easy day, still water.
Until some mis-understood cyclone struck
and she rose like a kraken
all emerald fury, teeth gnashing
Claws drawn to scar my face.
And so I am here on the bank
of a clear delta whispering my troubles
to the sea.
I’m just a man not complex,
not like that other sex that I am damned
to subsist with. A commonality
of language might have been an advantage.
The wave came raging red,
hitting broadside, rod on the shore
and I arse over tit, wrapped in sheaves
of wore and weed, in the cold sea.
My boots dragged me down, like words,
impotent in this maelstrom, I slowly drown.
Struggle is a whirring reel,
I spin with the surge and feel a shift,
Roll with the energy and break to air.
sense returns. The shore a short swim away,
So little to restore calm, just acceptance
that you are weaker than the ocean
And far weaker than an angry woman.
Y’all know my wife’s name is not Maura right?
Image courtesy of Google images