Sunday, 20 December 2020



heron tides its broken boats,

words left tidelined, stranded, 

picked over, kicked over,

over-collected here in laugharne.

castellated over cottaged lanes

as we thought it should be;

but here it is, as it was when he wrote, 

candled in spindrift wince,

all alone, 

high and dry,

and ever so bloody mighty.

No comments:

Post a comment