poetry diary

I used to scan the undulating waves for whales;
imagined tails and dorsal fins
just missed in swirls of sudden foam
that spoke of some creative force –
willing, but uncome.

But now I know the whales are gone;
eddies of another age
and chances missed.
The surface of the sea is wracked by sobs,
and the deep, slow, swell
of despair.

*******

On the Caen-Portsmouth ferry, Sunday afternoon. Possibly not in my normal optimistic mood.

She walks like a physics treatise,
or academic music book:
perfect in every detail yet
somehow failing to express
the music of the spheres or
soft, subtle passions of
a requiem and mass –
her eyes ahead as if
to glance aside might risk
awakening some devil soul perhaps
yearning for some as yet less indexed life.