Two Kinds Of Weather


Working boats so down-to-earth!
Stained and solid
beating out through salt and the head-killing wind.
This is the weather: gusts, fitful clouds.
Blunt stylus of the sun
dragging the ocean
searing, scattered sounds.

Day and night flickering
awareness, a noting in the mind:
boats going out, returning.
Night’s clarity: the harbour walls’
sounding-board for their
metal throbbing.
Things are departing me
not mine. And returning
thud in like bullets
the buffers gone. All night
the screws turning
drumming the harbour,
then ten miles out
turning off, adrift.
I hear insults,
the hotel din of drunken crews
I have never laid eyes on.

My heart is a card game,
surrounded by cheats,
the down-on-luck,
I cannot bring myself to dominate.
What sort of harbour is tolerance?
What kind of weather is risk?
I await the sun
warm the ribbed water.
Please read:
weather as before, markets, state of nation
(is it sex again and politics and gods?)
in shreds. Reports will be sent
reliably as I can make them
when there is left some love of self.
Lately there isn’t.

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