Go, please, just go

Stick with it…get to the end.

Waiting, like a man at the gallows

I wait and wait, and watch your desperate dance

The chance to leave this place I seek

But this is not my choice, but yours

And time ticks slow as cold seeps in

My coat pulled tight ‘gainst coming night

That perfect refuge still evades

And so you lead me to the dark

On and on, beyond the vale

of day and dusk and all that’s bright

A merry dance, and I must give

My all to follow where I’m sought

I try to fight against the pull

Insisting our time has run out

And beg, please free me from this duty

As slumber calls me slowly home

Just over here, you beckon me

As helpless I can not refuse

This is my lot, my place to be

I beg my dog, please do your poos

AB

Deepest Blue

My weekly dose of drivel

Alone she stands, a beacon, calling loud into the night

And to her warm embrace she beckons, drawing in with love and light,

Her warmth and tender words, they promise rest and fretless sleep

Through crashing waves, and razor rocks they flood into her keep

Her eyes as dark as deepest seas, upon which they once sailed

Her pallid skin, her blood red lips, the cross on which impailed

They pledge their love and service for the promise of life’s rest

And at last find solace in the embrace of her breast

Until the end of days, beneath the waves, they serve the throne

Lost to the world and those they left that toil the sun, alone

And in her wake they trail as slow she gathers for her store

Until their memories have faded, and at last they are no more

AB

Time

My weekly dose of drivel

She slips her hand, soft, into his and tender does suggest

that had she known him years ago then all would now be best

Sweet promises that seek to mend the things that cause such rot

With shallow smile he nods, and lies, for he believes her not

Like knotted roots, the tangled web of thoughts run deep and wide

And in the dark he chooses what she seeks to coldly hide

For these things make us who we are, and stoic he persists

Lives the ruin he will not give up, that blinds like winter’s mists

Queen of the tides

Something a bit different today

She slips beneath the silver spray, and into Neptune’s cold embrace

A tidy pile left in the sand, and not a thing left out of place

The rancid rot of time, well hid, laid bare where lovers hands caress

And in the waves, they tumble, she succumbs to false confess

She counts the life she lived, the lovers lost, and feels the dark

Until his siren beckons, turn away, and to his call she harks

And setting sun lights up the crashing waves like fire’s embers

She looks, forlorn, as hand in hand he leads, but she remembers

But it’s too late, their vows are said, she reigns and rules alone

In inky depths, her seaweed crown on bleached white, flesh stripped bone

Worse things happen at sea

I’m just kidding. Honest.

There’s a saying that runs in our family, coming from fishing stock as I do, and it goes something along the lines of “Worse things happen at sea.”  It’s pretty patronising and somewhat dismissive and gets trotted out most often when you bemoan a situation that the other person couldn’t give a monkey’s chuff about.

“Mom I’ve banged my knee…”

“Oh it’s just a scratch, worse things happen at sea son.”

with me?

 

Thing is there comes a point though when through indifference and old age I am finding it becoming my standard response to even more serious situations and it has me thinking that perhaps things really were quite terrible at sea and granddad was a quiet man not because of all the time he spent out on the water but because of all the awful things that must have befallen him.

Should my kids want sympathy then you know, I want to see a leg dangling limp with bone sticking through the skin because I am pretty sure something worse happened to granddad Tom at sea and it probably involved biting down hard on something and crying for his dead mother.

Should they be feeling a little blue then I find myself resisting a fatherly hug but instead insisting that it is considerably more taxing out on the waves and that they should pull themselves together, pack their bags and stop crying over being put up for adoption because it is just a waste of good tears and they should keep them for the orphanage because they’re going to need them.

I know it may seem harsh but I tell you, they just don’t make them like those salty sea dogs do they.