(20 minute poetry)


On the promenade where the North Sea salt cuts into your skin and the ships that make it back, you watch as they wearily traipse in and the stevedores cheer, you hear and you don't, you see, but you can't see the one that you're looking for.

The troubadour was born to wander and like the albatross you look down on the scene and wonder where the music went and all the times that were spent in the agony if we could replay the harbour that day when you sailed on the ecstasy would I see you again?

Is the memory a memory of pain? Is recapturing a loss to lose it again a part of what being alive means?

Harbour scenes.
I harbour scenes like a miser, never sharing because they are my miseries and my ecstasies and what memories.
The albatross knows and never tells,
The troubadour tells and seldom knows,
The North Sea wind blows more salt in my face and it doesn't care about any of it.