deepundergroundpoetry.com

The last Sunday at Cawsand

 

The sea invites me home - she, the infinite womb -
there's a hit of deprivation,
a sensation close
to leaving your constant form.

We pass sand eels, a regatta of boats,
a familiar song of numerals
that carries across the coast,
sharp stones dig into our feet,
anxious, we take the blow,
we enter the belly of the temple,
ocean takes us once more.

The further we get from shore,
space ourselves out at pace,
the more we lose sight of land dwellers,
we embed a connection to this place.

It's as if we delve into purgatory,
quietness sinks into the bones,
there's a terror of what is beyond here,
and what we passed before,
the mind hangs out on a gatepost
between bliss and running away.
It's like many things
living in our 'what ifs',
it's like many things
we could start today.

And it's mine, it's hers, it's his -
it's yours in your own time,
as your Mother did from the garden,
Earthly water, she'll call you home.
ImperfectedStone
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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