A recent draft of a new poem I’ve been working at. Enjoy.
THE HARBOUR SLEEPS THESE SHORES
This late, wet winter’s near dusk, from
the Dartmouth side of the harbour, the bridge
is not some cocktail party’s belched boast,
is not gin-fuelled and all red-cheeked and
breathless. No, it is instead that sly killing
bit of mid-day office gossip. A near-rote
second cup of what’s barely-morning-anymore’s
insinuation; one that everyone’s sure they’ve heard
(Once more! Oh, tell me anyway!), but no one
can quite articulate or source.
You know: if eyes had tips like tongues,
it could lie right there, the bridge. Lie
on, it might. Or so they’d have us believe.