he must have been cold
for it is May
and there is no heat
in the descending sun
he stood
in the Bay
water above his knees
a short-handled garden spade
in his hands
and he shoveled
displacing water
in a regular rhythmic movement
forward and down
scoop and raise
over the shoulder
repeat
above him
a cloud-bank has formed lovers
engaged in a kiss
lingering
intact
as last ethereal wisps
perform an illusion of presence
all the while
stealing away secretly
until a moment when no kiss remains
they are gone
the sun is low
the water transformed
to cobalt
the shovel wielder too
is no longer there
his impact
as ephemeral as cloud
~
-
Author:
Frank Prem (
Offline) - Published: February 14th, 2018 00:21
- Comment from author about the poem: The Book of Evenings.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻
Offline)
Comments3
Intriguing as ever Frank.
Cheers GF.
Your mind and imagination are amazing, Frank. The whole poem is just incredible, but that last stanza is magic.
Thank you Fred. A surreal moment.
Frank,
An awesome write!
Truly captivating!
~Laura~
Thank you Laura. I'm delighted you're enjoying these.
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