My Otis Redding Period

Here comes the tide again, telling me time is water. Obedient and keen to do that old moon’s dirty work. I knew it would be back. I knew I would be also. I always condemn what I can’t understand. This reverence for gravity when it’s got so much to answer for offends me when it makes my bones so heavy I can’t fly. Instead my feet are pinned to harbour stones beneath me that are slick with scales and seaweed – they’ll outlast you and me. 

So I stand here every day like a sentinel on duty surveying the horizon for the last ship launched in hope. But something about this telescope tells me it’s not fit for purpose because everything I find good in life seems so far away. I tip my battered hat and bow to all the great explorers who’ve exhausted every single map that’s ever been unfurled. If this spinning silver compass could determine my direction then maybe one day I might find a new magnetic north. 

How far have I roamed to find the face of morning sunshine, only to be pelted with fish heads dropped by gulls? It’s like realising that your fire escape’s on fire, while seeing all around you so much water you can’t use. But I’ll be back tomorrow at the whim of this condition, yielding to the ebb before abiding by the flow. The waves will come to taunt me with their will and sense of purpose while other empty vessels sink in oceans of their own. 

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