the estuary at laugharne

 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