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Poetry

The Problem With Tides

      Michael Arnold

I watch the death throws

Of a Mid – Atlantic storm.

Climbing breakers pummelling

Rocky outcrops.

Spray, high jumping fallen

Boulders, crashing

Down like monsoon

Rain, soaking

Green slimed rocks;

Soaking me.

Your laughter teases me

As it did at breakfast,

When you said

“Let’s go down to the cove

There’s been a storm.”

Why are you laughing?

I turn – in horror.

Your laughter fading

Into an angry

Foaming sea.

Why did I listen to you?

The tide comes in

On angles here;

Every cove, all the way

Down to Lands End.

I’m cut off.

I see your face

I hear your laughter

In every plume of spray

Washing over me.

Fear roots me like

A statue carved from

These ancient rocks

That will be my grave.

Then a hand grabs

My shoulder, shaking me,

Waking me.

“Come on you, if the drink

Don’t get you

This weather surely will.

Get in that doorway over there.”

It’s the blue people.

I can’t tell them

She was calling me

Again.

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October 21, 2013 · 3:43 pm