Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.140.186.66

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

November's winter sun is bleeding low 
where cold Thames makes a tidal run 
and also gentler pewter flow 
towards the city docks, the sea, 
towards the rising of the sun
 
A single coot beside a tethered boat 
paddles nowhere with each nodding scoot, 
to pace the passing stream and bobbing 
here and there to duck for silty scraps 
beneath the polished surface gleam.
 
Gulls face to worship low sun's last 
and warming rays. They stand upon 
Lord Beefington, on Topsy Sharp, on Rhos 
and fairy Meagen, all with their canvas
winter wraps white spattered with white birdy craps. 
 
The path beneath old Richmond's bridge, 
arched dark before night lights come on, 
is crowded at its ends, boats beached 
upon the towpath. Here pilgrim Turas sits alone, 
now tethered to the rails, awaiting suns 
with higher arc and boarding of much newer oars,
unfurling of much brighter sails.
 
And still beside the river's path the coot 
is paddling, back to sun, still nodding,  
beaking passing weedy bits one by one by one, 
still pushing hard against Thame's flow 
to bob for scraps and then let go, 
still going nowhere, nowhere to go, 
while Father Thames makes haste 
below webbed feet, below the tethered keels, 
below each bridge and arches where they span 
to meet the river's stream until, with sea, 
the journey slows to journey's end, 
the flow complete where Father Time 
must take his seat around that final bend. 
Here I wait to greet my Father, 
and my Father waits for me.

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required