From the depths of memory,
the wilfully forgotten:
wide suddenly, and full of light, this
window to the past, or
towards the past at least –
the past that soared, then swiftly flew.
Granite could not be harder than this
shore I’m wrecked on. Yet,
the harbour walls I thought I built,
white with age as they are, don’t conceal
sails dancing across the water; never
still, whether tossed or rocked gently.
Fly, then, sweet sails! Memory, turn
seaward at last, with the longing that is ever
seaward, ever returning to this particular shore, this
flying, with the wind behind us … remaining
unbroken after all. I can resist no more.
Wings, spread! Wings, soar! Fly forever!
An acrostic based on TS Eliot's stirring lines from 'Ash Wednesday':
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings
Written for my own prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, for Friday Writings #231: White Sails Flying, where I invite people to be inspired by those lines, and if desired use them in an acrostic. Apologies, everyone! Until I tried it myself I hadn't realised what difficult lines they are to use that way.
My scenario is fictional, but based vaguely on things in my life: not one specific situation or buried memory, but some loves that didn't last, and a childhood and adolescence spent near water, 'messing about in boats' – though mostly rowboats and motor-boats. (Although much in love with sailing boats always, I never did any real sailing myself except as a passenger.)
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