Backwaters

by John Smallshaw
(London, England)

Mist around my feet that clears
as my hearts trips over another beat and the ocean rolls in.
I think.
Where does this ocean begin?

I walk on the wet sand
with a cigarette in my left hand..
treading on the dead and decaying crustaceans
which I pick off like scabs.
If there was an immunisation for pain
I'd be first in the queue.
I think.
Would that the sky could be ever that blue
but then there'd be rain
so I put that thought back into it's box
and I try not to think it again.

The sound of a foghorn cuts loud
through the low cloud which has suddenly appeared.
In tiers slowly shifting,
like my life they are drifting to an ultimate goal.
I think.
If you felt so inclined
and you weren't too unkind,
you could accept the invitation
to step into my mind where,
amid the pitfalls and whitewalls
we could walk in the dark halls
where the lights have grown dim.
You would be made welcome
so step right on in.
I think.
As I sit in the fade of the outreach cafe
and drink piping hot tea,
what does it mean?
Can I see the big picture?
Can I read truth in the scriptures written so long ago
In the currents I move to and fro..
..out and in.
I think.
Where does this ocean begin.