the estuary at laugharne
upon the breath of this estuarine tide
the flattery rides slowly slowly
thoughts drop their muddy eyes
upon the uterine fundus the high tide of an idea
for a poem gestates and names the boat dylan
it is willed to sail the oceans until it rests
amongst every like-minded smoke-wreathed breath
that drew the rising tide of some dark ire for
his penned finger pouted and pointing out
the damned words that dragged that tide
across the moon sea’s road to stay afloat
clinging to that broken-leaded pencil talk
tabled and chaired at perspicacity’s gang in
brown’s beer or in the brown mud that flows
as slow as blood drawn down the exsanguinating tide
that closes eyes that distance tries to prise apart
here staid laugharne sits tight upon these tides
slowly slowly inland rises to the graves upon the hill
where the words fell still
and the water on the estuary lies slack
