The Wreck
The Wreck
By Don Paterson
But what lovers we were, what lovers,
even when it was all over—
the bull-black, deadweight wines that we swung
towards each other rang and rang
like bells of blood, our own great hearts.
We slung the drunk boat out of port
and watched our sober unreal life
unmoor, a continent of grief;
the candlelight strange on our faces
like the tiny silent blazes
and coruscations of its wars.
We blew them out and took the stairs
into the night for the night’s work,
stripped off in the timbered dark,
gently hooked each other on
like aqualungs, and thundered down
to mine our lovely secret wreck.
We surfaced later, breathless, back
to back, and made our way alone
up the mined beach of the dawn.
When there’s a coupling, what better form than the couplet! Loved the imagery and metaphors in this piece. Thx for sharing!
Don Patterson’s connections has an energetic affinity to his
flaming cauldron of words and his space expands in the universal language and tonal poem of a brave and palpable jagged world.