Cottage Down the Track

For the (fictional) series, "Edges"
Narrator's voice



Cottage Down  the Track

A dog barked from the secluded home

tucked between forest and water,

protesting at being left while its people

set out on the track to the market.

A Spartan dwelling, one might observe,

but cosy enough, and very private, away 

from society's harm. Not for the gregarious,

it could suit the hardy and self-sufficient. 

On balmy nights the sound of the sea

would be sweet reassurance. Although

they can't grow all they'd like in sandy soil,

they can grow enough. And they fish.

                       *********

The startling reunion began with tentative talk

gradually replacing initial mistrust. After all,

there had been other loves of the heart, other 

memories and losses. There's no going back.

What there is, is the action called "going forward".

They haven't mastered that art, perhaps won't

in whatever time's left. But they have chosen

to journey the next part of the adventure together.

They don't believe in or expect the fairytale

"Happy Ever After". But they have learned there are

Guardian Angels, even for recalcitrant lovers,

and they're willing to take some new chances.

Washed Up

For the (fictional) series "Edges"
Narrator's voice



Washed Up

They share a story, these two,

who were lovers briefly, once,

and since then have travelled far.

Where they have been, what done,

they cannot know of each other – 

it's been so long. But sometimes,

when she combs her hair, does she

remember him running his fingers

through it, and under its fall on her neck, 

before drawing her face gently to his?

Of course she does! And prays 

to Mother Mary that he is well,

wherever in the world he may be.

As he too, staring out at the sea, 

doing his own remembering, fervently

wishes that she may be happy 

somewhere (sigh). A foghorn blares

across the bay. He startles 

out of that old dream, shivering,

and puts the memories away.

They see themselves, each of them,

as old and wise – poor scared children

breathing, separately, the rarefied air 

of their refuges along this lonely shore.

He plays guitar. It's more immediate

than the piano he learned as a boy.

As for her, when she wants to tear a hole

in present reality, to find her own soul,

she sketches tiny pictures with charcoal –

a leaf, a gauzy dragonfly, a quick fairy....


Linking to Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Treasure, on the basis that the poem speaks of these characters' treasured memories.