simonhlilly

WRITE

Write with the surge

Of words that boils up,

Nor tide over the roar

And rushing hiss, the fast bliss

Of licking, foaming sound

Eating sand and landwards,

Landwards up to cloud

Up to grass and sun.

Past the decent reach,

Roaring past the pitch

And yaw, troubling the roads

Eating the lazy lean of worn pathways,

Spitting out new views raw and hot with life,

life that burns bright and dances wild.

Life that lifts its skirts

And does not care.

A fire and flood of windswept words

That will whisper and remain:

“That we were here, that we were here”

Long into the longer silent night.

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