|
| migrating |
| There isn't much here |
| for me any more |
| just seagulls, sullen, |
| that mutter soft curses |
| and watching gray surf |
| toss restless in sand |
| that huddles in clumps |
| by my feet, |
| a wind that scratches |
| cold nails |
| in my face day by day, |
| and I'm tired |
| of rain-dreary skies |
| and of watching |
| the sea oats wilt slowly |
| without any sound. |
| Is it time |
| to be checking my wings? |
| time to spend time with this cloudcovered sky? |
| time to remember where south is |
| time for a silent goodbye |
| time to migrate? |
| © Jon Bohrn (1998) |
|
