POEM TITLE
The Lobster Pot
POEM
I chase a grey ghost ‘cross this cold, lonely isle
We sweep ‘round each other like strange silhouettes
I stop at this pub to crack open a smile
The patrons wash ‘way the sting of regret
Full up with lobster, cross down to the shore
The pebbling silence filled just by the crash
I see your face arc like a smooth silver claw
Then shatter to bits in a sea-foaming slash
But I keep looking harder, feet wet and sore
The beauty of Blackness draws in like a light
My moth wings are soaked but I scour like a boar
For my beacon of safety among jagged delights
It’s what I come back to in Blackness on Sea
A building that’s shaped by its warmth in the dark
I walk back through the door and I feel something change
Like a wet dog shocked by the strength of a spark
And I see the ghost waiting, like she’s there just for me
Hands folded and neat like the decade before
When we dined, spinning tales and fat full of glee
The same lovely lady that I’d gone and fell for
And I’m still there today, at my table for one
After asking the bar ‘bout the catch of the day
My lady smiles back as I sit in the sun
And pore over the sight of a bronze cod filet