In These Lines
It's almost dreamlike,
the sun shimmering on the water,
faces passing by, the pier
hung with flags. I could be
anyone, tethered to a silver chord
sent out from the yearnings
of a distant mind
deep in sleep.
Or maybe something
more exotic made up
of the feathery light leftovers
drifting down from the wake
of a passing angel,
the whispery float of dust
marking passage to the divine.
Everything seems unreal.
I cannot measure the shape
that contains me, but have become
what I behold, shimmerings,
shadows, the reflected images
moving across a window,
the air drunk on the smell
of wattle.
Now can you see
what I have become -
this vague notion looking
for a way out of a shifting world
to live in the lines of a poem.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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