Ian C Smith
Prognosis Grim
The gift of fantasy, the future, gutters.
Heading to the horizon I concentrate on a mantra,
heart unstitched, breakers rushing to greet me
after I strain, lower myself gently to sand,
shed shoes, socks, mainland mindset, havoc.
A month’s reprieve from humiliating tests,
a time, surely, to live in the moment,
a temporary breakout from this ullage of the spirit.
Thoughts of a no-show for my return crossing.
Old friends meet by the encompassing sea.
I mask the heart’s heave with wicked laughter,
no butter-melt in my mouth but whiskey wish.
Another wreck on this rocky coast, I have form,
come clean to a gull breasting the wind.
Sanctuary in seaweed waft? The end of the line?
