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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?  






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