is feeling for the sea
and all I write in early morning's
pure and sweetly dreamed.
Nice words from an amiable man
scratched with pointed nib on paper
or angry words from an angry man
biting, scribbling, biting heads away?
Could I say more? No, no more.
At evening time the sea will fix the sand.
still as a lamppost,
shoulders tense, head bowed,
clear his throat, murmuring
words of encouragement,
an Apollo in very late countdown.
with a yell ‘Surprise!!’
and starts to sing, you think, too loud
before you realise
There seem points
when even balance is balanced;
like a see-saw or horizontal weigh-scale
or when my car’s milo went through
(all those ducks in a row)
and one day, each year,
every place on the planet
gets almost exactly 12 hours of daylight.
Almost, that is, almost
in balance – more or less mileage,
almost an equinox - but thankfully never,
not quite; a smidgen, a pulse
out of whack and somehow, god willing,
it seems better like that!?