David Trame
Surely
They will be late, those feathers.
Blown over the palm of the waves,
Drifting endlessly, digressing,
Lulled by the broad dream of the sun,
Caught and released, spun through,
Drowned and washed ashore,
A frayed film of wool among the pebbles.
Lost, eventually lost.
Dissolved by the foam. Forgotten
Among the sea shapes. Or late only,
Late and so present now, you never know,
As the child you thought lost
For an eternity of seconds and you found
Sitting under the bed smiling.
As a feather exactly
With the simplicity of being a chance.
Page(s) 23
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