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low ebb

night time brings just a silence
bar the shingle hiss,
the sucking of the tide.

limpets cling for their lives,
upon the legs, and the braces
of the pier,
the steps down to the water,
the rocks,
and the dead timbers.

our moon shimmers.

forgotten words return,
like so many gulls,
terns and auks,
words bounce off the tops,
all useless talk.

i sit with my feet at the low ebb,
the lowest ebb,
think that this is not a place in which i can sing,
it is a place to give in.

so, let me move this thing,
i carry these chains,
day after my day,

let them down, leave them behind,
accept the sound of the chimes
as the bell advises me of the time.

the ocean comes close
but i am not near,
but i listen to it, and i wonder still.

this is the low ebb.

low ebb

uncleblack

Joined February 2010

Artwork Comments

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