The Retreat

 

He sits in the same chair

with his drab voice and dead eyes.

Cobwebs grow on him.

He’s there in the morning

when I bring him breakfast.

He’s there in the evening

when I bring him dinner.

 

......

...................................

 

A young man walked along a sea front 

his hair had colour, his face taut 

forearms smoothed brown by the sun

blond hairs shone by the sun.

 

His world had untrodden paths

marches, dances,

desire paths across the ridges

of the earth,

 

paths through sinking sands

of estuaries to dry land

green and fertile

where he could grow, something.

 

 

Unmade paths to be cleared

to be fought for, to be made

and shared beneath the mountains

before the seas.

 

He’d often watch from the docks

or on the landing stage, or

on the decks of trawlers,

fish slap out the last of their lives,

 

wide eyed, wide gasping mouths

slipping limbless on a wet deck

until they suffocate in the air

swim stopped.

 

 

 

He tried to throw them back

let them swim, some did

but many, most, just floated

one blank eye to the sky.

 

 

I, can document this

I, have observed or heard

much of this, this fight to save

the floating schools.

 

And I, like him

have no recourse to religion

there will be no invitation for us

to any mantel of immortality.

 

All that remains is retreat

he in his head and me,

when he’s gone, I will stare

at the sea

 

stare at the dawn and the dusk

and the fire that flares on waves.

 

He sits in the same chair

With his drab voice and dead eyes.

Cobwebs grow on him.

He’s there in the morning

when I bring him breakfast.

He’s there in the evening

when I bring him dinner.