The shoreline waits,
But she will not go,
"It is too late" she says
And knows
The debris and the tatters
Mark her out.
Visitors run to the shore
They see the sun and the Dutch sky
Big, like their lives.
She turns in her bed
And sinks down low.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
The rigger journeyman was city bred,
But Cumberland was in his bones,
He saw the hills above the doors,
He saw the fells above the roofs
And when the great pain came,
His eyes belonged to them again.
By Ruskin Street he stopped to choke
At forty six, his wife beside,
My father's line revealed to me,
A farming, rigging family tree.
His place of death recorded so,
Not 'in' or 'at' but 'by' they wrote,
Impressionistic, vague, but true,
Or careless hand for riggers, who
In city great of small account
By Ruskin Street,
Out for the count...
The journey ends
And Benson, male,
No sails will mend.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC