Thursday, May 24, 2007
If the soul of my dead father
If the soul of my dead father remembers anything he will remember the rake of these rock pools, the lean of their stacked lines, he will note limpets and shrimps and know this umbrella mist as it falls lightly as drizzle. If he remembers anything he will hear the clipped whisper of the waves on the turn, here where he used to swim far out as if - I wonder now - it was his only solitude. I suppose a soul from this place will hear gulls squeaking and have no argument with far-sighted oblique storms. 'High tides are expected', a woman said to me today, my father's soul will want to be here, in the spray and in the gale, in the storm's uncompromising rage.
I.M. Albert Hart
she procrastinated @ 18:00 |
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