In the Mist of St Heliy
There is a plastic hand clingingto the corrugated roofs of the warehouses
and in the distance a crane
is partially submerged in morning mist,
a lonely horn sounds and the
town cats have all gone to bed.
The steep slope of granite steps
lead to somewhere and nowhere,
the ferry in the distance sets sail,
we used to wave from the harbour
but neither of us are sailing these days
and I wish the mist would clear
just to reveal the mystery of us.
I wonder if someone will claim the hand,
they say the roofs are unsafe
but at midnight on a full moon
the cats are gallivanting
and the rats in the eaves
scurry forward and back,
they're not bothered by the mist
I'm only troubled by the lack of clarity
and lights echo shadows
on a misty morn in St Heliy and memories of you.
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2016-10-28 at 20:05
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Lawrence Beck |
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