|Brian Waltham's Poetry|
Ah but there are days that come
Fresh from under stars so close and
Clear that you want to stoop;
Days that hug enough of dew
Never to be knowing and old,
That keep the tang of wet in roots
And wisdom gets no further than
A droplet in a nettle, teaching
The sun about colour.
Then, as morning stays early, there
Can be the very near, catching the
Run of an ant on a wall, or this
Intimate breath of moss or that
Spider tying a can to a tap.
Then, as the roof-tiles prink out
Their wiry lychen, the clouds
Argue about shape and how many
Shadows to let race across the
Then, still new, it is old as grass,
Old as the first rain, old as the
First creatures, new as wonder.
For all the talk of magic
And once-only music,
I reached your shore
With stuff not fit to land.
The truth is not storms or greatness,
But a hull that would always
Finish in the sand.
Not Odysseus, but a
Bankrupt from rotting quays,
Sewage-silt, sargasso weed,
Come to find your rock and
Yarn about the murderous seas.