Lifebelt Post by Sydney Clouts

Horizon approaching, wave
by wave in the million
crumples before the placid gull reflects.

A steep stone scaled
abruptly by the salt, remains.

But that old timber with its hook
of rusted metal black with sorrow, tilts
and falls
and ends its epoch.

Fallen, that power of things
which none needs give to things:
when I laugh shall the leaves laugh?
when I walk into a room shall all
its objects be accomplices?
or walking out are stars not stars enough
without this heavier multiple of grief?

Good morning, child
good morning, child so clear
whose limbs are dark with light.


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