Ten knots

On being reeled in
by the line,
tight
so thin
like the air that
we breathe and
going under for the
last time

the last time and
the last time before
and the time that the
ocean reached out to the shore
another line cast for
the footloose and fast
for the
‘quick and the dead’
a book
I once read.

Those locked out are also locked in.

Bars,

I’ve been in and behind them
shaken though spared and
have dared to ignore them.

As unfixed as I am,
many men are so bust up
they can’t kick the dust up
and lay silent to pray

always a Sunday for some.

pot roast or pot luck?
I’d chuck it all in
for the line
tight
so thin
for the reeling
that feeling we get

shaky
like blancmange or
a shivering jelly on
a hot afternoon.

The moon and I
are old friends and
we’ll get by, but
the ocean’s a tyrant
the bully that pulls me
apart.

© 2016, John Smallshaw.