THE SILHOUETTE by Tony Burrows


                                                THE SILHOUETTE

                        Day breaker lost in life, soul breaker lost in love,

                        Homeless, faceless, the awoken dreamer, timeless,

                        A silhouetted figure, broke on shore, sea drawn,

                        Tilts on the unfathomable mooring morn,

                        Cuts ebb low, with glinting glass bottled trapped tide,

                        That brought in the froth of light,

                        And hushed pebbles washed up, another lost night,

                        Now kipper eyed, watches, as postcard promises,

                        The naked flats and ribbed roads revealed, to be

                        Scoured by scavenger, bored by curlew,

                        And re-cast or not, the worms of limpet plays,

                        To urchin out endless ‘in loving memory’ bench days,

                        With hollowed secrets in deepest pools of fears, filled

                        By the salty dried trickle of transient years,

                        The non- participant observer,

                        Visible only as sun dial noon time,

                        Studies deck chair daily families flapping,

                        Gaggle gathered in line,

                        Dominion claims on the tide turning,

                        Tide watching, wave lapping,

                        White legged, burnt back beach,

                        Where pioneer paddlers, shingle surf,

                        Across shimmer mirror sheets,

                        Of the fish bed sea,

                        Coloured in childhood twinkle blue haze,

                        Around ice creamed, sun creamed, sun kissed days,

                        And the light winds that blow kind,

                        Prints indelible on the formative mind,

                        The unwitting players in the golden round,

                        Seaboard tread, leave their shoreline seats,

                        Taking the babble, banter, chatter, and play,

                        Their do and don’ts, the when’s, the may be,

                        And how soon is soon, away,

                        After the day tripper, caravanner, camper, and short stay,

                        Leave and wave the sea,

                        Late couples prim and prom, arm in walking stick arm,

                        Evening casual matching yarn, in twilight hues,

                        Set of retired rusty sea rail capstan tan shoes,

                        No vacant viewing, breakfast course set, harbour bound,

                        Where tired mud, and pondering pools of rainbow oil,

                        Sigh under weed green chains and nets,

                        And empty, once full,

                        Fish boxes from ports no one recollects,

                        As bare beach beckons, open mouthed,

                        Laughing gull reclaiming,

                        Metal hopeful, hapless, map less treasure land,

                        Is scanning foot print scenes, where on-shore breezes,

                        The prosecuting victor in, cock court, shuttle sand eases,

                        And fielding final over, long shadowed cricket,

                        Played out with pylon stumps,

                        Punctuated by racing ball races, to neep tide boundaries,

                        Finding the love struck single, longingly staring far away,

                        To horizon hugging pillow clouds, that touch,

                        The turtle blue backed, never to be eider down sea,

                        Holding benign dreams in captured coupled moments,

                        And with the dripping sun’s early night shades,

                        Silhouette slipping quietly away,

                        Whispers below the unrequited waves,

                        And eventide falls again heavy with sleep.

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One thought on “THE SILHOUETTE by Tony Burrows

  1. Wow. Talk about overwhelming the senses. I feel as though I turned my head into a strong wind and held it there a little too long. I am still getting my breath back. Thank you Tony. That literally was breathtaking.

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