Each time I miss the boat
I find something left behind,
an unexpected gift, lying on the quay
and when life seems to pass me by
I try to remind myself it was really me
moving in the opposite direction.
I know such Hallmark profundities
only change the story
not the facts ––
but the facts, what are they exactly?
What is there beside stories?
It was always thus
me stranded on a beach
a shore bird of different feather
pecking in the shallows
the rainbows out of reach
I once dreamt I was a song bird
a coloratura with wings
flying higher than a high C
That too was a story, I know,
but it sustains me still as I go on
feeding on dreams
and on the grubs and crustaceans
by the sea.