In Ireland, sea swept and green
against the wind, this mast, salt lipped and bent
by the mad skipping white caps
farther out - the gray fading ships
closer in, the tiny bobbing boats
amid misty fog they float
nets and fish, heavy they list
the watery wilds
toward home.

almost
at breaking point

almost
fleshed out of existence

she caresses
the white hospital cup

as if it were
a soft-feathered fallen dove

frightened and waiting
for a chance to fly again.

© M.L.Emmett

My lover’s eyes no longer navy pool
bleached paler by years of beating sun
His nose over ****** dominion rules
and skin with liver spots is overrun
A dandelion man, confused and tall,
a long thin stem and a puff of white hair
Unsteady gait, joints need an overhaul
the crack and creak of cartilage wear
His views are fixed and often dogmatic
expressed in cold voice with power and force
He never cares to be diplomatic
preferring a more a belligerent course
Yet, he is my love and ever shall be
as long as the tides rush in from the sea.