Tuesday, 30 January 2018

The prospectors

the prospectors 


and did they come but by three by three,
borne on their sad sighs to photograph me,
and did the filming seem
like the stuff of a dream within a dream;
and although the drones
droned on, and on, and on, upon 
the drizzled beach-ward walk,
their story bowed before the thrones
of the queen of the sea and Davy Jones;
and through the graveyard did they talk
of times gone by, where the angel points
to the tides of time, to the state of the sky and sea;
and what awaits these three king’s of film,
and will they get the story of him,
who walks alone to the sea each day,
with lonely feet on patient grass,
to the grim sea spuming and his swim,
and will they get, with each drone’s pass
the feeling of w hat just may be; may be
the spirit of grey hot blood in a stormy sea,
transfused in a pushing tide at flood;
for their sighs have been stung away, in eyes
that glisten of salted tears upon the raging wind
across his sea, they see their horizons expand,
and the stinging spark of creativity rekindled,
for what was mundane has dwindled, dwindled;
to be replaced by a vista so grand
that the Alex, Cerith, and Henry team 
are dreaming in Jim the Swim’s own dream;
for they have pinched the sleeping dragon,
the Celtic ghosts out in the bay,
and while the drones, drone on and on,
they have reaped the treasure in their film,
which will forever tell of him;
of Jim the Swim in all his glory,
now was there ever such a story,
told with such perceptive purity
and by this team on film laid down 
for everyone in perpetuity.

Was there ever such a productive dream
as the Alex, Cerith, and Henry team?

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