Old Man Lament

To the westerly winds I take a step towards
of muddle shores and breaking tides

from time to time I ache and bend
underneath the fallen lights

But there is a window in which my dreams appear
of open spaces and green lushes

The dream I had is coming near
But the land is covered in halo blight and callous fears

Like old men naked clinging underneath the easterly winds
Where shallow masters make maybe

Grinding the grits of an unbending tree
Running till I smashed against the tide

With the wind and the black fog covering my eyes
And I wondered if this is the Westlands

That was bountiful and plumb
And porter of whispered dreams.

But our breath is lost in the wind
With the air of haunted bones and broken backs

Receding from the frontline of our muddy shores

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