Poem No.153

POEM TITLE Until Draped

POEM and so sits beach hut on blue morning

leaning out into the day

scooping me from the bay all grassy hair as

some long-asleep algae

claws clicking, calling

the Pot at Blackness hums.

Oh the lighthouse, i call

to my dripping companions

inching nearer, further

from deep below

the throbbing windows beat

themselves a hundred feet to bulge

and so lift our spirits, creaking

awake and stretching

for cool stone and the whispering door, to wait

between lives, drying

until draped.