The Return
Thunder projects him to horizons far-flung,
And every note in very song unsung
Falters now in my tightening throat.
I exist, anticipating future times,
Watching while the fevered sun shines,
Blazing hot-white in wing mirrors.
Soft flying flotillas in a lidded sky
Line the licked up road while the tarmac burns.
I'm a passenger on these graceful galleons
Swept along by wild gusts of wind,
Now hurling themselves in his path but to yield.
Then he's hurtling further on home,
To that foreign county well-concealed,
Hidden and known to his heart alone.
I see him dart and weave there
Through shaded backwoods,
Hidden by hedges, hugging the road...
Rough thickets soon penetrated
As the sun hangs low in a sultry sky.
The well-remembered shores of youth
Are washed by billowing tides
That, roar, roll, then mutter
As their salted tongues utter
Old secret poems, his Odyssey
Sung by lilting waves that dip and churn.
His absence keeps flooding me
Each moment, relentlessly,
And I see only too clearly
The one way I'll know he's returned.
By Dido Walker copyright 17/10/2016
Photo by duncan adler on Unsplash