Monday, March 05, 2018

Onshore, a poem


The wind had come onshore
and we could peddle home,
breeze at our backs, the rain
following behind.

It swept us on, that breeze;
it whispered how the day
ever grows forgetful
of morning’s every promise.

Out over swamp and prairie
built the towering dark
of distant afternoons —
remembered, now, remembered

in dream of slabs of storm,
summer’s lightning licking
along our gray horizons.
Remembered, as a sun

that called us to the now
empty rain-swept beaches.
Our past has its own paths
through other afternoons;

it will not be found
along those ways, beneath
the palms that swayed so when
the wind had come onshore.

Stephen Brooke ©2018

Another of those poems that harks back to my younger days along the Gulf coast in SW Florida. I should probably be working on the novel instead of writing these!

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