“Lost and Found”

I found a poem today

sitting in a secluded bay

as the sun dipped between

the clouds and the Coromandel:

a drop of butter spreading

on the hot slip of ocean

separating me

from the mainland.

 

Life is a poem,

all we have to do is

string together the lines

and sometimes it rhymes

and sometimes it doesn’t.

Sometimes it fits and

sometimes it sticks out like a jagged piece of rock

in an unforgiving ocean.

 

Any civilised measure,

any beat other than my heart’s

has no place

when confronted by a sunset

and a rocky blue bay,

with a breeze rustling the page

so that even my handwriting

resembles the rugged island.

 

I asked my dad how spiders spun

webs across gaps far wider than them.

The answer, he said, is blowing in the wind.

I hear it now, washing in with the waves,

forming perfectly smooth stones.

It isn’t written here though.

I left it in stingray bay,

where it belongs.

 

The sun has set now

and it is time to leave.

But go to that quiet bay,

look next to the pile of rocks

on a warm summer’s day

and you may find it still,

traced into the changing sands

by God’s forgotten hands.

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